


It's The Simple Things

by pinkbagels



Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Spacedogs - Fandom
Genre: AU, F/M, Greg and Mycroft don't know each other, Lestrade is perfectly capable of solving cases, M/M, Mycroft being repressed, Romance got in my case fic!, Sherlock being an awful brother, Slow Burn, Spacedogs, probably no other crossover like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:32:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkbagels/pseuds/pinkbagels
Summary: Convinced that Adam Raki, astrophysicist and overall anxiety machine is, in fact, a criminal mastermind set to destroy the world, Mycroft and Sherlock put him under strict surveillance to ensure the safety of the known universe.  Detective Inspector Lestrade, however, is just keen to get some bloody awful drug runners off his streets and Nigel Ibenescu holds all the keys to taking Darko's cartel down once and for all.As Sherlock's wishful thinking and DCI Lestrade's reality are set to meet, some energies cross and it's up to Mycroft and Lestrade to decide if this creates a new galaxy or a black hole.One word remains trapped in the forefront of Mycroft Holmes's mind.*Potential*.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing a Lystrade (Mystrade?)! Not Brit picked, though I could definitely use it if anyone is keen.
> 
> Nigel of Charlie Countryman is a compulsive curser, so keep that in mind in regards to this fic. He swears a LOT. 
> 
> Comments are love! I hope! :P

 

 

IT'S THE SIMPLE THINGS  
chapter one

Mycroft Holmes stared emptily out of the windshield of his black, government issued Audi and wondered if it truly was possible to die of boredom.

There are certain responsibilities a man of superior intellect must observe, and one of these is the knowledge that it is far better to strike down a scorpion and neuter its barbed attack before it can have a chance to crawl into one's boot. Pre-emptive espionage had become something of a specialty for Mycroft Holmes, a man whose work for Queen and Country held all the mysterious cloaking of the MI6 mythology within it, keen to keep the shadowy world of its manoeuvring readied for his personal arsenal. To say the pen was mighty in his hand was to dismiss the Constitution as a flimsy bit of scrap paper, for Mycroft Holmes's influence was no small portion in international relations, his keen connectivity to problems and their solutions making him very much in demand, despite the fact he rarely left the confines of his desk. The world is, as it had always been, a place of files and papers and deftly signed lines, of meetings sotto voiced speaking of war and advantage, of discussions of power that were often, Mycroft thought, strangely cyclical. He employed clean methods, was efficient with razor sharp immediacy, and with his vast network of CCTV voyeurism he was perfectly capable of discovering every secret rendezvous attempted beneath the veil of the worst pea souper the Thames had to offer. When it came to London, he possessed an intimacy that only its deepest DNA could provide, and he was self assured in his efforts to keep her black, darkest histories hidden and her streets fairly clear of corpses. Mycroft Holmes is a man of poignant depths and strategic insight. The fact kings can sleep at all is a testament to his methods of safeguarding the world.

Men such as Mycroft Holmes did not stare blankly out of the windshields of spotless black cars, watching random ragged plastic bags roll down the centre of a tired, filthy street, bored out of their minds.

His subordinates had found no cure for it. Sherlock would have loved this, being stuck with a complaining John Watson in front of a cheap flat staring out of the windshield of a black car up at a dirty window above a chips shop. He'd been trapped here for exactly five hours, doing some decidedly unwanted hands-on work that he would have preferred to fob off on one of his many agents. But the past two weeks and several agents later, the information he sought had not yet been discovered, and his target remained as isolated and aloof from everything as ever. In a fit of fury over the apparent stalemate of this round the clock surveillance giving up nothing of interest, Mycroft had decided the best recourse was to take on this tedious sampling of monotonous watchfulness himself.

He regretted this decision. Deeply. Five solid hours of staring up at a boring, grease smeared window, the twitch of a curtain and the blue glow of a computer screen the only signs of life within the flat. How he hated field work. Mycroft Holmes was a man used to toppling worlds with the mark of his pen on paper and sharp words over phone calls ending, or starting, wars. Not sitting cramped in a car with scratchy radio reception for sole company. Chopin choked his way out of the Audi's speaker. The satellite radio hadn't been installed, of course. Cost cutting measures.

Actually, no, it was a simple oversight, a box not ticked on the list of perks the fleet of cars at his disposal provided, and after this particular torture he was going to rectify this post-haste. How was it his agents hadn't complained? With the strings of a cello the surveillance could have actually had pleasant notes attached, and this lack of observation from his team gave him pause. His spies were duller than he'd thought if they didn't comprehend the healing power of Nocturne No. 1 Op. 9 in combating ennui.

He frowned and let out a puffed sigh as he glared up at the large window, the curtain, again, twitching slightly. The man in that flat was an extremely dangerous individual, Mycroft knew, as evidenced by the sparse information he had managed to gather of him. His file was thin, their sole photograph an image of someone overly neat and tidy, and yet he had a fastidiousness about the grim line of his unsmiling mouth that Mycroft instantly recognized as the distracted pout of genius.

He knew that look well and what dangers it could ponder.

Adam Raki. Thirty-six years old. American. Did a number of freelance IT work before selling up and leaving his boyhood home in New York and starting anew in California. The reasons had been clear, his father, whom he lived with, was an ex-military man who lived a spare and highly regimented life that he passed along to his overly quiet and introverted son. Eventually, riddled with kidney cancer, he had died mere months before Adam Raki's shift in residence and career. Mr. Raki was now in his fourth year in California at the Mount Wilson Observatory as a researcher, though what he does there, exactly, is still fairly vague. What is in evidence is that Adam Raki, an exceptionally intelligent man with no ties to anyone and a life as secretive and spare as a brick, has developed a hobby that has far reaching implications for the military, specifically international space programs.

The fact such knowledge was sitting in this man, wandering around his tiny little life, festering into a larger and more dangerous thing that grew out of his (no doubt about it, Mycroft had seen enough of them in his time!) criminal mastermind, (so many shades of a quiet Moriarity!) was enough for MI6 to be alerted and thus the hunt for this unassuming little monster had begun.

But Adam Raki was not what Mycroft expected. He had holed himself up in a dirty London flat, for reasons that had no connection whatsoever to his actions in California. This was a further assault on Mycroft's suspicions, as in his experience only a criminal bearing nefarious knowledge would move in such a way, suddenly leaving his place of employment in California and hopping well over half the world into a place that was decidedly less optimal than the one he'd left behind. Adam Raki's movements told Mycroft that the man was in hiding, concerned his discoveries were set to ignite the world and, thus, were worthy of being sold off to the highest bidder. He hadn't yet found the buyers, but Mycroft's agents were working around the clock to ferret out the criminal arms networks that were honing on this tiny man and his sloppy, large ambitions.

There was no question. Adam Raki had to be stopped.

And yet...

"Maybe he just wanted to see London."

Dr. John Watson, his brother's conceptual thought bouncer and overall pleasant enough fellow once one got over his incessant need to pander to Sherlock's whims (*Accepting* dead body parts stored in the refrigerator as something one gets used to! Was he courting botulism as a means of escaping his sentence of being chained to Sherlock's life?)had looked up at the stricken faces of both Sherlock and Mycroft with some alarm.

"What? It's possible."

"Have you not heard what I have been telling you?" Mycroft said, trying his best to keep the sneer from his voice. "The sudden change in behaviour, the sensitive nature of his work, whatever it is, the isolation of himself within a London flat, which he secured without paperwork. These are not the movements of a fastidious, highly organized individual. The flat was ill researched, as was his flight, which implemented seven connective planes before arrival in London. As though he were shaking us off his scent."

"That last bit is most telling, it's a classic zig-zag ruse in the air. I checked and it's clear he could have got a direct flight for a pittance more in airfare. This points to one thing..."

"He's not used to intercontinental flying," John interjected.

"No, this is obviously the work of a criminal element, John," Sherlock said, amused and shaking his head at his friend's folly.

John sighed and folded the newspaper he had been reading. "If he's as smart you both think he is, then it's a given he has the same symptoms of genius, which is to say, he thinks differently from most. I should have thought you, of all people, would understand that, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't miss a beat as he turned back to his brother. "John has taken an opposing view, which can only mean one thing. This Adam Raki is clearly a mastermind of the most insidious order."

"I'm putting all my resources on it," Mycroft grimly agreed.

That conversation had transpired two weeks ago, and Mycroft had still not moved forward in his investigation into Adam Raki's motives, a fact that was making some of his compatriots nervous. Rumours that he was slipping in his cold duties were beginning to form, and Mycroft bemoaned the miserable, chatty gossip that his agents tended to wallow in, seeking conspiracy and incompetence in matters they had the barest of understanding of. No, he was still the Iceman, still as cold and level headed as ever, and still the one who could connect vast threads of intrigue that would leave any spy novel written on the subject a pile of incomprehensible gibberish. But they weren't all wrong, the last thing his department needed was a sudden bomb placed in the London underground, undetected by the best spy sniffers in the world and leaving plenty of civilian casualties. There was still talk circulating around boardrooms of his ineffectiveness in regards to Moriarity, the explosion of the flats and the resulting fifty dead a wound on his judgement that would not heal. The Magnussen issue was still too fresh to discuss civilly, though most in the upper political circles had felt more relief than horror at Sherlock's pre-emptive action. Mycroft was keen to get a win, and this threat seemed simple enough. Adam Raki was an opportunist, and there was no doubt he considered the sale of space weaponry fairly lucrative. Satellite controlled bombs could be quite handy for whatever terrorist of the moment, and it wouldn't take much prodding for them to consider it a good idea to blow up half the planet. A big bang that echoed across high tea, upsetting trays of crumpets and cucumber sandwiches.

He stared out the windshield. He blinked, and yawned, and stared some more.

Another hour crawled and Mycroft found himself transifixed by a tiny, red beetle wandering aimlessly along the far right edge of his dashboard. It had four uneven black spots, and though it was pretending to be a ladybird, it clearly wasn't. Its body was too orange. He watched it crawl with a hypnotized fascination, his mind blanked by its random, scrabbling movements.

He shook his head, and fought the urge to smack the innocent insect for being such a benign distraction.

This was not to go on. It was all unbearable, this waiting and staring and impasse of inaction.

Time for it to stop. And it was Mycroft who was going to do it.

He stepped out of the black Audi, his dark wool coat shrugged closer as he crossed the street and headed for the door leading into the flat. He glanced up and down the fairly busy street, noting a beat up panda in the distance, along with steaming coffee cups and a couple of constables chatting with one another. A late morning routine. This was a regular spot for them to obtain their daily caffeine fix, Mycroft had read in the reports. No detail too small. It was useful having members of the Metropolitan Police hanging about, even if they were nearly an entire block away and would prove to be mostly useless in the immediate aftermath of an altercation, but should shots ring out they'd be calling for back-up faster than Mycroft would able to. An imperfect cushion against disaster, but one in existence nonetheless.

The rest of the street was comprised of the usual rabble of London squatters, poorly maintained shops with cracked windows and a grimy sense of close to the bone life that left a permanent feeling of tension in the air. Two girls barely out of their teens pushed strollers, smoked and swore as they passed him, eye-liner too thick, their worlds too heavy with ill-prepped responsibility. He was reminded that John was set to have a child very soon, and he wondered what impact that would have on Sherlock's world order, if he would be able to manage around the distracting wails of a human larvae. Mycroft couldn't understand the point of such a trouble, not when the world was already full to bursting with useless people and adding to that number seemed a ridiculously selfish act of sentiment.

Of course, Sherlock in his usual way was already planning on the unborn child's education, replacing all of Mary's music selection on her iPod with subliminal physics and history lessons, with smatterings of lectures on chemistry. "It can delete the knowledge it doesn't want later," Sherlock had argued. "What's important is that the education begins early and the neural pathways are thus wide open for transport of further information." Sherlock turned in his seat to give Mycroft a better view of the two wave patterns on the laptop's screen. "Ingenious program, it plays a hidden audio file of selected textbooks just beneath the tempo beats. They're all so similar, she'll never detect it, and the baby is guaranteed full exposure. Dear God, what is this? Die Antwerd. There's nothing but Afrikaans and swearing on this, and she is exposing the baby to this filth, what is Mary thinking? What is this gap toothed villain singing about? Is he seriously chanting about his *cock*?"

Mycroft shrugged his coat closer, bracing himself as he walked with purpose to the door leading to Adam Raki's flat. There was no point in waiting any longer, he was going to initiate a crisis and hold the fervent hope that the police in the panda at the end of the street would be smart enough to call for help should the entire block suddenly explode. If not, he had his cell in his pocket, his thumb grazing emergency button on its side.

Mycroft braced himself. "You've hidden long enough, Adam Raki," he said to the door, and he knocked.

Three times.

Loudly.

Firmly.

There are things in life that happen unexpectedly, no matter how much one prepares in advance. Rain on a day where there hadn't been a cloud in the sky. Flat tires on country roads, with nary another car in sight and the nearest home miles away. A movie everyone says is fantastic but when you watch it you know it's shit. Badly made tea. Overly dry biscuits where one expected fresh softness.

The sudden pain in his side from a well aimed kick and a plastic bag over his head were both unexpected things, and Mycroft struggled against it, only to be kicked again, his consciousness ebbing as the bag slowly suffocated him. He felt himself being dragged by strong arms and shouted at in a language that was most certainly not English. He did a quick assessment and realized the man currently trying to kill him was shouting curses at him in Romanian, and what English he did use was fractured and furious. Mycroft clawed at the plastic bag, and barely made a hole in it before he was shoved into the back seat of a car, the wheels catching the asphalt in squealing screams as it careened past the stunned policemen still holding their coffee and staring after Mycroft's abduction with dumb expressions of alarm.

So much for his hope of their quick reaction to a crisis. And no, as a matter of fact, he couldn't get to his cell, it had fallen out of his pocket and was now wedged somewhere underneath the back portion of the seat, impossible to dig out.

Yes, he'd managed to tear the bag off of his face and yes, he was being kidnapped in his own car, and yes, he was definitely in serious trouble. He reached behind him to take out his standard issue Glock only to be disappointed as the barrel of it was directed, one handed, at the centre of his forehead. The tall, blond haired man in the front seat took his eyes completely off of the road to turn around and curse at him, heedless of the oncoming traffic set to kill them both.

"What the fuck is this fucking shit!" the crazy Romanian screamed at him, and Mycroft could only stare silently at the barrel of the gun, wondering what was going to kill him first, the bullet or the oncoming double decker bus? The fiendish man took a quick look over his shoulder and ducked the car out of the way, earning horns and screaming in his wake as he ran two cars off the road and onto the curb. There was a resounding smash as a tiny Toyota hit a lamp post. "You tell that fucking piece of shit Darko I have nothing to do with his bullshit any more, do you got that? Fucking idiot, going up to that fucking flat like you can just walk up there like it's nothing! What kind of fucking money did you get to pull that shit? Darko didn't even tell you what you were walking into? Typical fucker! Always missing the point, that guy, always thinking of the little piece of paint never the whole pictures! He hasn't a brain in his head and thinks he's the boss, and he sends a stooge like you on me, who can't even know to keep his gun when he's getting killed! What the fuck kind of soft bitch is this? You smell like a fucking desk! What are you, his secretary? Fucking accountant or some shit? Idiot! He's a fucking idiot!"

The car speeded up as it headed for the highway, trucks and cars zooming past as the madman kept his gun and his full attention fixed on Mycroft and not on the road. He was going to die this way, they both were, Mycroft reasoned. He could feel himself step outside of the situation, placing this man into his usual assessing scrutiny and making a mental, handwritten list of his attributes in an effort to find a conclusion. Sherlock wasn't the only one in the family with the power of deduction, though Mycroft's version was perhaps more pragmatic in practice.

On yellowed paper, within his mind, in carefully inked words from a calligraphic pen, the facts were, as follows:

1: He was in his own commissioned car (a lovely Audi, with pleasant beige seats, which almost made up for the lack of satellite radio), being driven onto the highway with no respect for the rules or safety of the road and both himself and this man were most definitely going to become road kill beneath the wheels of several transport trucks.

2: There was a gun pointed at the centre of his head, unwavering, wielded by a man who knew damn well how guns worked and he was adept and comfortable using one on another human being. He looked like he enjoyed killing things. This did not bode well for sustaining Mycroft's life in the long term.

3: He was going to die. Definitely. He possibly may have mentioned this already.

4: The madman at the wheel was shouting at him now in Romanian, again, and Mycroft didn't understand enough of the language, nor its odd colloquial inflection, to infer what the devil the man was on about. He was screaming something about Darko, obviously a code name for Adam Raki's space program, and about names and how he wasn't about to give them up and the fucking CIA and KGB could all suck his rather large sexual organ and how many times did he have to fucking say he wasn't ratting out anyone, and for fuck's sake, knocking on Adam's door was a dick move, a real dick move, and he was going to make sure Darko knew it.

5: The madman wore the ugliest shirt Mycroft had ever seen. Rayon, cheap, short-sleeved...Were those *dachshunds* printed on it? His skin was hot and sweaty, he had a scar on the bridge of his nose, sharp features and a cruel, but sensual, mouth. Blond hair that hung in wisps in front of his face. Strong arms and well defined muscles. Handsome in a brutish sense. A tattoo of a half naked woman on his neck. Every muscle in his body was soaked in emotion. His pores leaked his fury.

6: Mycroft Holmes was going to die. As usual, in this portion of the list, Mycroft's mind would scribble out regrets. It was a stubborn reminder that he was, indeed, human and capable of feeling even if he didn't want to indulge it and found it a tedious chore at best. That whole John having a baby thing, it got right into his psyche, hinting at all the things he'd purposefully missed out on. He'd never fallen in love. Sentiment, pointless sentiment. He'd never know what it was to have someone caress him in naked desire, wholly attuned to physical and emotional want, to spend his life in banter with a close friend, a confidant, a Watson, of sorts, of his own. Children never figured in these regrets, but the need for human connection most certainly did, the idea of taking someone home at Christmas (ugh...there it was again...sentiment...thinking of his parents on his deathbed, he was mad!), of tea brought to him in bed, of compatible conversation and reading alongside another, and having something so deliciously, wonderfully, boring as a relationship...

No, no, no, he had to scratch all that last bit out. Off goes the pen in black smudges across his mental page, get that ridiculous pap off the list, it had no business being there. Dear me, point #6, you are a maudlin, wretched thing that should never have taken any such stronghold within the mind! You'll be thinking on Sherlock next, and feeling regrets tainted with a brotherly love that definitely was never to be reciprocated with any degree of satisfaction for either of you, and damn it to Hell, there the bloody boy was, a distressed ten year old asking for his elder brother's advice and weeping over the death of a dog, and damn you to Hell, Sherlock!

7: Oh yes, personal and biological hurdles that mixed in a highly unpleasant miasma. At the age of eighteen, having an affair with his overly married political science professor was one of his rare and large mistakes, as was, especially, losing his virginity to the selfish cad. He should have known the philanderer was not to be trusted and it was foolish to be upset that he wouldn't leave his wife. Mycroft had purposefully dropped a collection of love letters from the professor's other affairs into the top drawer of her secretary's desk and enjoyed the fallout just a little bit too much. *That* he did not regret. He can still hear the echo of her slap against her husband's face across the Oxford halls.

Of course, there were highly personal repurcussions, ones he'd never shared with anyone, not even Sherlock and, well, this was a list of longings and regrets, so...He indulged it. There was, indeed, a bitter regret that he'd allowed that selfish man to destroy his perception of love and relationships, his own hurt was so deep he'd allowed it to fester to unreasonable proportions.

Sentiment. Dear God, make it stop.

8: How was Sherlock going to react? Back to brotherhood, how fun. Would he be upset? Oh, no, undoubtedly not, he'd give a shake of his head and move on and be perfectly happy he didn't have to relinquish his usual list of recreational drugs he'd used to enhance his perceptive performance. Of course, there was Dr. John Watson to contend with, there, so Sherlock was not set to get off quite so easily. Not again. That was fitting. Though he couldn't understand why, he was about to die, and no longer being his brother's keeper did have the appeal of relief.

The madman was now off the highway and careening through what looked to be a collection of council flats, the neighbourhood seedy and dark and full of hooded figures that looked on the speeding car with curiosity rather than alarm. The Romanian was spewing orders at him, and Mycroft had to pause the scratching of his mental pen in order to hear him properly:

"I said take off your fucking clothes! All of them!"

Mycroft frowned, sure he didn't hear right.

"All of my clothes?"

"Did I fucking stutter?"

The gun was still pointed at the centre of his forehead and Mycroft had no choice at present but to comply. He slid out of his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, sliding it off slowly and laying it beside the expensive wool fabric beside him.

"For fuck's sake, it's not a fucking striptease, just fucking hurry up and take off your fucking clothes, down to your fucking undies. Shoes, socks, all of it, hurry up!"

Mycroft complied, silk boxers holding in the very last of his dignity. He looked anxiously at the pile of clothes beside him, unsure of what the madman had planned and not particularly wanting to know.

The scratch of the pen resumed.

9: There is a man standing directly in front of the speeding car with his gun drawn. I think he's going to shoot.

Stunned, Mycroft's mind cleared and the car screamed to a halt in front of a man dressed in the usual battle fatigues of the investigative team of Scotland Yard. Long, grey coat, more expensive cut than one would expect, salt and pepper hair, broad shoulders, gun held at the ready to take out the madman, an angry pound of his fist on the hood of the car, glorious, shining angel's wings spread wide from his back.

Well, no, that last bit was pure fantasy, but the fact was, Mycroft was no longer going to die and didn't need the list after all. It sputtered up into flames in his mind, taking all the information with it, black ink curling within yellowed paper and disappearing with a sparking pop.

He could hear sirens, howling in earnest as they sped closer, and just like that, the Romanian madman turned in his seat, opened the back door and shouted at Mycroft, "Get the fuck out. Now!"

Mycroft poured out of the car and onto the filthy gravel of the council tenements, curious eyes staring at him through tattered curtains and around corners as the car did a sharp turn and fishtailed its way back up from where it came. Snarling shouting permeated the air as the man (An Inspector, Mycroft reasoned, one who looked very pissed off, and what was he doing here?) cursed at the escape and stomped his feet in frustration, a howling growl sent out into the grey murk of the late morning. He turned around, ready to pursue Mycroft with just as much vicious intent, only to circle the road, dumbfounded when he couldn't find him.

He hoped the Inspector was not too angry with himself over losing his prized witness. Mycroft's specialty was not being seen, and if he managed to slip away and yet remain at the periphery of the scene it was all due to specialized training and stealth. The fact he remained near the mess of police cars and adrenaline fuelled energy and didn't make a full hasty escape had nothing at all to do with the fact that the handsome Inspector had most certainly saved his life (Handsome? What was that word doing there?) and Mycroft was curious as to how and why the Inspector knew to find him.

Mycroft picked a wet coat off the ground and slid it on, hiding his near nakedness and his pale body beneath muted dark greys that blended with the crumbling wall at his back.

"You can 't be taking that, you pincher! That's me formal coat. I use that one on the Sundays and for court."

Mycroft hugged the lice ridden coat around him, ignoring the feeble protests of the homeless man behind him who continued to berate him, calling him a filthy thief. Mycroft edged closer to the edge of the wall to get a better view of the thick collection of police cars and personnel that had gathered at the scene. He witnessed a young woman with a scowling demeanour approach the Inspector, her hands firm on her hips, every inch of her body language screaming that she was the sort that was permanently angry.

"He dumped the car near the Holly Street Estate and torched it, Sir. We're sure he went in the London Fields Railway station and took the Overground, but we lost him en route, he might have just hopped the tracks."

"Fucking bastard!"

"Sir? At least we have confirmation he might be ready to talk. Our officers positioned at Larkhall Rise said he took out a possible Darko goon. If Nigel is getting targeted, he'll be wanting our protection."

The Inspector rubbed at his jaw with a gloved hand, thinking on this. "I hope you're right, Donovan. I'm getting real sick of this cat and mouse crap and it's hardly Nigel's style, either. As for that goon, I got a good look, Nigel had him in the car with him and shoved him out, pretty sure all the sod was wearing was his skivvies. Check all the ERs for someone wearing red silk boxers and naught else, he's probably beat up pretty bad."

"One of Darko's men? You thinking he'll risk that?"

"Worth it to check, would love to pick that punter's brain to figure out what Darko's end game is in this. You'd think he'd bloody well know better than to try and pick Nigel off at his own safe house. He's got Adam in there, there's no way he'd let anyone near him. Surprised London is still standing."

Mycroft was shocked. He told the complaining homeless man at his side to hush and pressed close against the crumbling bricks, his bare feet mired in slimy, stinking garbage. This Inspector was perfectly aware of who both Adam Raki was and his insane Romanian companion. Mycroft watched him with interest as he placed his hands on the top of his hips, breathing deeply in and out as though to find some centre of equilibrium. The Inspector stood in the centre of the road, as though replaying the tense, moving standoff in a constant loop, seeking out a different solution. One where he caught his prey.

His breath left him in a stream of steam, head held high as the yellow tinged bricks and wary onlookers in hoodies gave a sharp contrast to the Inspector's pressed suit and neatly coiffed silver tipped hair. This was a man of determined spirit, Mycroft thought.

A child on a bicycle rolled in front of the Inspector. "What's going on?" A freckled face, pure curiosity, and menace looked up at him. The green eyes of the child narrowed. "I know you. You're Inspector Lestrade. You work with that creepy detective guy, whatsit...Sherlock Holmes."

"Actually, he works for me sometimes," Lestrade clarified. He frowned, looking at the kid. "And here, I know you. Your Mum's Gladys, ain't she? This ain't a school holiday, what you doing out of class for?"

"Got the flu," the kid said and spat on the road.

"Like hell. I know your Mum, and I know you, Francis Yardsmouth. You get your arse to school afore I give her a call and let her know you're up to no good. Didn't your brother break her heart enough? You going and doing what he left off?"

"You can't tell me what to do."

"I certainly can tell you what to do, you're ten years old, and you're a bloody truant--Get to school!"

Cursing, the little freckled monster spun the wheels of his bike down the road, and the question of whether he was doing what Lestrade told him to do or not was never to be answered. What Mycroft did find curious were several things he had to edit within his own vast inner library. This was the 'incompetent moron' Scotland Yard Inspector Lestrade whom Sherlock had mentioned once or twice, and as was his brother's habit, his lack of flattery seemed wholly unfounded. From his vantage point, Mycroft's keen observation placed Lestrade in the following categories: Handsome (that word again! But he did have a way of holding himself, and yes, he was pleasantly fit), determined (as proven by his attempt to bodily stop an out of control driver and car), intelligent, (who the hell was this Nigel person, and how did Inspector Lestrade know about him before any of Mycroft's own agents? He seemed to know a lot about Adam Raki, too. As the book said, curiouser and curiouser), caring (he knew all about that random child's family. He probably has a regular roster of lower level criminals he's stuck on reforming. Cares about the fallout of crime upon a family, as evidenced by his reference to the boy's mother, 'Gladys'. A tan line betraying he once wore a ring. He's not married, or if he was, he's now divorced, long enough for the tan line to have nearly disappeared. He has kind, large, expressive, dark eyes. He's the kind of man who demands the best from his team and can be a hardass, while at the same time buying them rounds of coffee and knowing exactly how they all take it. He's been a shoulder to cry on more than once.)

Inspector Donovan said something unintelligible and Lestrade grinned. Mycroft rather liked the look of his smile.

Another word crept into Mycroft's consciousness and he couldn't gather why it was there or what meaning it was supposed to have.

Potential.

For what?

"I want my coat back. That's my good coat. I want it. Gets cold here at night. Give it back."

The old man's pestering really was annoying, as was the whiskey soaked yeast of his skin which was now, unfortunately, permeating Mycroft's pores. "Harassing me will not get your coat back, and as you can see I have more need of it than you at present. Besides, you have a spare one in the cart."

He pointed to the ragged collection of clothes and cardboard and other assorted bric a brac that made up the unfortunate man's life. He cast a rheumy, angry gaze on Mycroft, a thick, filth encrusted finger pointing at him in accusation. "That's a women's coat! I can't be going around wearing a woman's coat, I'll look ridiculous!"

Mycroft gave the homeless man a good once over, taking in the pink knit sweater with an image of a kitten stamped on it, his pants torn and stained, held up at his waist with the ugliest striped brown tie Mycroft had ever seen. He sighed and slid the man's coat off, gesturing to the cart. "Just give me that one, then."

The old man huffed as he put his ragged coat back on, the pockets torn and spilling lining, the elbows so tattered Mycroft could easily see the pink knit sweater poking through. He was given a woman's brown leather coat with a thick fur lining around the hood, the close fit of the waist flaring out at hips that were far larger than his own and were distinctively more feminine in shape. At least he wasn't in his underwear, though at this point it would probably be preferable. He pointed to his feet. "I don't suppose you have anything to help me there?"

"Bloody bastard customers always wanting everything, always complaining, always bitch, bitch, bitch..." The old man muttered as he rummaged through his cart.

He handed Mycroft his offering and Mycroft hesitated as he took them from him, his mouth a twisted grimace. "You don't have anything more appropriate?"

"I'm the finest tailor in London!" the old man exclaimed, and Mycroft gave him a solemn nod.

"Thank you," he said, not wholly unappreciative. His skin itched in all sorts of unpleasant ways and he was sure the poor creature could use a good scrub up in hospital. Mycroft made a mental note to inform Anthea to arrange it. One had to take one's kindnesses where one could find them, and small rewards were larger than one might expect.

A part of him reminded himself that he could have just come out of hiding and come clean to Inspector Lestrade, informing him of why he knocked on Adam Raki's door and, apparently, sent off a maelstrom of trouble. But he was wholly reluctant to approach the man with any sense of disadvantage. One didn't just step into the circle of a miraculous angel who dared to get in the way of certain death. One had to take some serious steps back in order to determine just which, if any, feathers he was set to pluck from him first.

~*~

He was forced to ride the tube. He'd managed to scrounge up enough change to take him to his brother's address, but he was set to travel at least an hour before he reached his destination. It was going to feel like a very long walk from Baker Street Station, though the apartment was close by. He grimaced as he glanced down at his grimy feet, the sunflower flip-flops the old homeless man had given him doing little to make his ensemble less grotesque. The brown leather coat was a castoff from the 1970's and fiendishly feminine in fit. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the underground window as well as the pointed stares of his fellow passengers. An elderly Jamaican woman tutted and shook her head as she looked at him, saying to no one in particular in her thick patois, "Man, these people got some kind of problem."

He stood holding on to the middle pole of the rail car, the miserable centre of attention. He'd done an inordinate amount for Queen and Country, not the least of which was monitoring his brother's actions so they didn't fly too far beyond the pale of fascination and into criminality. Discomfort in inappropriate clothing was hardly the worst he had endured.

His brother figured prominently in his greatest efforts of safeguarding the mother country. He knew damned well when it came to criminal masterminds, Sherlock himself was at risk, the game far more important to him than the small lives it would affect. Still, Mycroft had to admit he'd softened over the years with John at the helm, deflecting madness and smoothing over sharper points of intellect that could have easily spilled over into terrorism. Somehow, Sherlock had found people in his life he cared about, on a level that was far more than surface. He'd convinced John to forgive Mary, he'd placed a vicious beating on a man who had bruised Mrs. Hudson. He sometimes stole cigarettes for and from Mycroft.

He also pretended to be dead for two years, devastating those exact same people and if there was some making up to do, well, it was only right that Sherlock had to make such a concentrated effort. But even so, this did not diminish the fact that his brother had changed, an insertion of humanity within him that was not uncomfortable or alien but now resided with a certain acceptance within his being.

It was Dr. John Watson who had forged this, Mycroft knew, a man of deep pensive thought and clear morality, the glue that patched the holes made by Sherlock's brusque dismissal of humanity. He knew when to step in when Sherlock had gone too far, and was not afraid to challenge his brother, nor was he afraid of understanding him. He called Sherlock his 'best friend'. The very moniker had stopped Sherlock cold, not a simple feat by any means. A short circuit caused by care. Mycroft inwardly grinned at the thought that something so obvious and simple had bested his brother's complex thought process.

The train rolled to a stop and Mycroft got off, blending in with the crowds who kept their heads down and their opinions to themselves in a bid to keep their own anonymity secure. He could feel the damp chill of winter curl around his ankles and bare feet and felt a pang of angst over having to walk the small distance to 221B. He pulled the fur lined bright brown leather hood over his head and kept his face hidden.

If he had a Dr. John Watson of his own, which he most emphatically did not need, of course not, he had gone on this far without one, he could have dialled from any random payphone and begged of a ride and clean clothes. Anthea, his assistant, was not an option, for while discretion was the hallmark of his office, he knew better than to fully trust those who worked closest to him. As they were all spies and conspiracy theories at their core and did these things for money, such people could never hold one's darkest secrets. With the predicament he was currently in, he most certainly did not want to give anyone, not even his current assistant, any measure of advantage.

No, what he needed was someone who did not have ambition invested in his interests, who, like John, was on the periphery like a sort of queer curiosity. A goldfish of his own, one content in its bowl. Friendly. Could it be possible he could go that far? Sherlock had, and Mycroft had believed him beyond all hope. Perhaps such miracles were not out of his grasp after all.

That word. Stubborn and resolute, it popped back into his head again and stuttered around the periphery inside of his skull. It echoed and nagged.

Potential.

Right. There was only one cure for this line of circling thought and that was to kill the very concept before it began to fully form. As he stepped out onto the open pavement, the cold hit his bare legs and feet with shocking sharpness and he shivered as he marched towards the nearest phone booth, ignoring the taunts of a group of youths making kissing noises at him, one miscreant in a hoodie grabbing lewdly at his crotch as he strolled past the phone booth.

He snatched up the phone and dialled the code that would ring Anthea's cell. She answered before the ring was through.

"Sir."

"I need a change of clothes brought to 221B Baker Street. I also need a file compiled. Everything you can find on an Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Sir? Your brother's associate?"

"That's the one."

"Very good, Sir. How soon do you wish to have it?"

"Immediately. Bring it with the clothes."

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets some insight from Sherlock, though perhaps it's Dr. John Watson who is actually onto something...Astonishing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is mention in this fic of the be-all and end-all of Spacedogs fics, a lovely story titled 'Craigslist' by Llewcie. If you're new to Spacedogs, by all means, read it here and be sure to comment on that work of genius!
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/5054350/chapters/11623174
> 
> (As for poor Greg--Good Lord, those sisters! And a triad, too! O.O'')

IT'S THE SIMPLE THINGS  
chapter two

Freshly showered, borrowing his brother's robe and delicately sipping tea on the worn sofa, Mycroft couldn't possibly feel more uncomfortable. His brother's domain was hardly a homey spot. Sherlock and John sat in their respective chairs, both silently judging him and his sudden appearance at 221B Baker Street in a filthy women's leather coat circa 1974 and a pair of sunflower flip-flops. His feet were still bright red as the sandals had provided little protection against the light dusting of snow and the tips of his bare toes still tingled. He gave the elongated digits a small frown, and flexed them, forcing circulation through them.

Mycroft brought the mug of hot tea Dr. Watson had kindly provided to his lips, grateful for at least this warm respite.

"Red silk boxers," Sherlock said, spoiling the comfort the tea brought. "Ghastly."

"Ah yes, my dear brother, focus on the things that are important. Not the fact that I was about to be murdered in cold blood and my body dumped in a gutter. This was definitely the plan, a bit of foresight on my potential murderer's part, it would have taken time to identify me seeing as how my corpse wouldn't have been sporting a wallet. But yes, by all means, concentrate on my underwear."

"I just don't understand why they have to be so garish. Or silk. It's not like, God forbid, you're about to show them to anybody."

"We got an eyeful," John reminded Sherlock, his attention still captured by the newspaper in his grip.

"Red silk boxers. The polite man's equivalent to garters and knickers. Really, Mycroft, are you that addicted to fantasy?"

Said the man who routinely rode the tube drenched in blood, porcine and human, his appearance too grisley to be accepted into a cab. Mycroft had afforded no introdcution, heading for the shower first, of course, where he scrubbed off the filth of poverty stricken London and all of its crumbling leftovers from Victorian industrial suffering. As always, he carefully inspected his brother's medicine cabinets and made pointed deductions over his choices in shampoo. Australian Kiwi cream rinse, Mycroft had observed. Interesting. John still occasionally showered here.

The brewing argument about his unfortunate choice in underwear was cut short by Mrs. Hudson, who hobbled into the room bearing gifts in her spindly arms. "Your assistant dropped these off, Mr. Holmes, freshly dry cleaned by the look of them, and there's a thick file there for you, too. My, that's a lot of information shoved into manila. Is it one of your special cases, Mr. Holmes?"

Smiling, Mycroft placed his cup of tea onto a dusty side table and took both his clothes and the file from Mrs. Hudson's grip.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say."

"You never do say much, do you, dear?" Mrs. Hudson shot back, and Mycroft had to wonder if that little smile of hers wasn't creeping a little bit into self satisfied snark.

But there was little time to investigate Mrs. Hudson's highly subtle impertinence. The manila file was quickly snatched up from its place on the top of Mycroft's clothes, and Sherlock eagerly began rifling through it, papers smushed in his hands as his thumb gave the pile a hard workout. Blast his brother, what need did he have to meddle in this! Mycroft dropped his clean clothes on the sunken cushion beside him, layering the expensive threads in a fresh coating of dust, and, leaping up from the sofa, he made a pointless move to snatch the folder back. Sherlock used his quick, well honed reflexes to his advantage, his grip possessed with the lightning quick speed of a magician's slight of hand that kept the file just out of his brother's lunging reach.

"Rough housing is how you broke the oven," Mrs. Hudson tutted as she reminded Sherlock. "Keep this silliness up and I'll be telling your mother."

"Do give her a ring Mrs. Hudson, she'll be sure to take my side in the matter, seeing as how she's still cross over Mycroft's disappearing act during the last act of Les Miz."

"You were supposed to have relieved me during the intermission!" Mycroft hissed through clenched teeth. "A final half hour of mangled French history and the depressive pleading of Victor Hugo's masterwork on apathetic social injustice reduced to tap dances and a cheerful sing-a-long...Dear God, it *broke* me, Sherlock!"

Sherlock kept the file out of reach, his eyes narrowed on his brother. "Back door out of the men's toilets?"

"Actually, there is a hidden employee exit near the canteen."

"Excellent. Our parents are forcing me to accompany them to The Elephant Man: The Musical on Wednesday at the same venue. It's had a resurgence, who knew that gross human deformity could have such lyrical appeal? Just a brotherly heads up, they'll be coming after you with an extra ticket and a repeat performance next."

"Shall there be no end to their vile obsession with the cheery backdrop of suffering?"

"Watch it, Sherlock! You nearly put a hole through the door, there!"

"Are you still here, Mrs. Hudson?" He bounded over the couch and leapt onto to the top of his desk, spilling piles of papers onto the floor in an effort to stay away from Mycroft's fruitless snatching. "I can't figure as to why!"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and sighed as she left, toddling back down the stairs to her home and muttering that she wasn't getting new drywall so quickly this next time. She'd change the wallpaper, too, that would fix him. Something in a dull, plain beige.

Mycroft and Sherlock were now in a juvenile fight to the death. They stumbled over chairs and over the back of John's seat, beakers spilled and broken in the kitchen as Mycroft continued to helplessly snatch as a grinning Sherlock kept the file high and away.

"Give it!"

"I will. When I'm done with it."

"It's not for your eyes!"

Sherlock made a big, theatrical show of thumbing through the vast amount of pages, soaking up the information as though his mind had a straw. "A file on Inspector Gregory Lestrade? My dear brother, you have lost your mind. He's hardly a person of interest." Sherlock brought the file to his nose, and sniffed it daintily. He pulled it away the second Mycroft tried to grab it. "I sniff a rat. There's something odd about this. You said you were thrown from the car, a bullet near grazing your head. The car sped off, heedless of your injury, the mysterious Romanian maniac still on the loose on good London's streets. But there's a problem here, dear brother."

"Which is?" He jumped for the file, but Sherlock held it aloft.

"You're still alive. Which is problematic because I don't see this Romanian gangster leaving this kind of a loose thread, it's just not in his modus operandi. From his language he is clearly passionate, moved by feeling, and you don't have any, so there's really nothing there for him to go on by way of mercy. He did not fire the gun at you as evidenced by your perfect hearing, you practically leapt from your seat when you heard Mrs. Hudson walking up the steps with your fresh clothes and this mysterious file. If a bullet had grazed your head like you said the sound of the shot at your left ear would have temporarily deafened it for hours. No, you have been fibbing. You were tossed from the car because this so called mindless maniac as you call him didn't want to bother with a hostage. That's some oddly lucid thinking for a madman. You suddenly became an additional problem to a lot of other problems. Something made him stop and chuck you out like yesterday's trash. What was it?"

Sherlock's silver eyes narrowed and Mycroft felt his stomach clench.

"Or rather, *who* was it?"

"Sherlock, for God's sake, just give him the file. Lestrade's a good man, he's not going to find anything negative in there."

"You're right, John," Sherlock said, and a wide grin suddenly erupted across Sherlock's face, looking far more manic than pleasant. "Inspector Gregory Lestrade is an upstanding officer of the law, a good man, a very, very good man. And he was there, and with the quick eye of a man of his training, he instantly recognized there was a hostage in the madman's car and...Like any good man forced into such an impossible situation, Inspector Gregory Lestrade, aimed his gun," Sherlock held the file between his palms like a weapon and aimed it at Mycroft, "and threatened to shoot if your maniac Romanian gangster didn't stop the car on a dime. I believe there may have been a deer in the headlights moment, that fraction of a second where you couldn't believe your death was about to find an unexpected reprieve thanks to the unbelievably courageous act of a silver haired fox in a grey trench coat..."

"I admit, it was shocking."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he'd sprouted wings," Sherlock said.

Mycroft snatched the file from Sherlock's grip, not at all liking the way he was smiling down at him as though he was in on a secret not even Mycroft knew. "Fine. But if you are so full of insight perhaps you can tell me why he was there."

"I'm afraid not," Sherlock shrugged. He frowned at Mycroft's sudden interest in the file, whose slender fingers were already flipping through it in careful perusal and smoothing out the pages Sherlock had crumpled. "You did say he called this gangster by name and seems familiar with him. All the more reason for me to wonder why you did not step out of the shadows in your oh so very tantalizing red silk shorts and beg of him to tell you all about it."

Mycroft glared at him over the file, closing it and resolving to look it over carefully in the comfort of his private office and well away from his brother's piercing understanding. "The pursuit of Adam Raki is meant to be classified. I can't go discussing matters of national security with just anyone, especially if I haven't researched them first. Besides," Mycroft tilting his head up, looked down his nose at his brother. "You said he was a bumbling fool. From what I witnessed, I did not get that impression in the least."

"I don't know where you got that opinion," Sherlock said.

"I believe the words 'Inspector Gregory Lestrade is a bumbling idiot' were the ones you quoted Sherlock as saying in your last blog entry, isn't that right, John?"

"Yes," John said, returning his attention back to his paper.

"Coming to his defence." Sherlock tilted his head and regarded his brother with icy assessment. "Interesting."

Mycroft's stance was haughty. "I think the real question here is why Adam Raki has a Romanian gangster, maniac, whatever he is, in his employ in the first place."

John shook out his paper and folded it neatly, laying it on the arm of his dusty chair. "I know you are both convinced Mr. Raki is evil personified, for reasons I can't quite fathom. Liking macaroni and cheese is not a prerequisite to being a psychopath..."

"He eats it seven days a week and says you," Sherlock shot back.

"Sherlock, you have given plenty of detail of the man, and none of it is at all nefarious. He hasn't left the flat save for getting small amounts of groceries, the same thing every time. He goes to bed at a very specific hour, he uses his computer all day long, he doesn't have any friends, save this crazy person who nearly did in Mycroft, and otherwise he lives a very quiet, small, brilliant little life within his own little world. The only person you should be focusing on is the madman who nearly did in your brother!"

"The madman is a lackey," Sherlock said. "He is the right hand man, the iron fist, of a criminal mastermind."

"I don't think so. He's probably just a crazy friend who's got boundary issues. No one else has gone to the flat, you said so yourself. It's just the two of them in their own little universe."

Sherlock scoffed at this. "Why on earth would someone keep a friend like that?"

John blinked at him, and then returned with a sad sigh to his paper.

"You have been investigating Adam Raki?" Mycroft asked his brother.

"Of course. The topic came up and I was intrigued. We have learned many fascinating things..."

John folded his paper again and gave it a decided smack against the arm of his chair. "No, we did not, Sherlock. We learned that Adam Raki eats a lot of boxed macaroni and cheese, likes broccoli and orange soda and he consumes these things while his crazy friend watches home renovation shows on the telly."

"John, really, you are being tiresome. Adam Raki is one step away from world domination and all you can say is that his life is boring."

John raised a brow. "I know you don't believe you are ever wrong, but this time, I think the two of you are reinforcing a delusional conclusion. You've both worked around subterfuge and gaslighting so much you don't know when you're doing it to yourselves. You have tunnel vision. If Adam Raki was truly an evil monster set to storm across London like a Mensa champion Godzilla, he'd have done it by now." John crossed his arms over his chest and frowned, thinking. "The facts are, it's this Nigel fellow who's the real problem. Why is someone like Adam Raki with him? We've witnessed him furiously arguing with the check-out girl at Tesco over the price of a can of coffee, to the point he was escorted out by security. He's quite a loose cannon, that one."

"At the risk of tedious repetition, John...Criminal mastermind," Sherlock reiterated, and for once Mycroft agreed with him.

John threw up his hands in frustration. "I still don't understand why you are going after this Raki fellow in the first place. It's all very nebulous to me."

"Nebulous...Nebula...Oh ha, ha, John, very funny. I'll have you know I looked up the planets again recently, they are now in the permanent space in the hard drive, no thanks to you. Copernicious and all, it's taking up far too much room for my liking." Sherlock tapped a long forefinger along the side of his nose, deep in thought. He gave Mycroft a sidelong glance, which Mycroft ignored. He was more than eager to get changed into his fresh clothes and head to his office where he could investigate Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade in peace. DCI Lestrade. The man had a promotion, recently, and neither of his selfish associates in this room acknowledged it. John was still using Lestrade's older title in his recent blog entries. How very typical of his brother not to correct a point of pride for someone else.

Sherlock tap, tapped the side of his nose.

"I'm sorry, why *are* we going after Adam Raki, again?"

Mycroft let out a long sigh of displeasure at this. "International security."

"Vague, meandering, unclear, random, inscrutable." Sherlock pressed his lips tight together. "I'm starting to think John has a point, and you don't want that to happen, I'll be cross for days." Sherlock smiled and faced his brother, standing in front of him and preventing him from going into the bedroom to change. His childishness was reaching boiling point proportions.

"Out of my way, Sherlock!"

"Taking a bit of bedroom reading with you? My, you are possessive of our cranky little Mr. Lestrade already! You won't be feeling quite so curious when you meet him, he's painfully dull. All hot tempered coffee induced stress and stunted intellect, though he does seem to have moments of alarming lucidity and the occasional smattering of quality police work."

"He has earned not one, but seven awards of distinction during his career and was scheduled for knighthood just last year. He turned it down." John nodded at the file in Mycroft's hand. "It's all in there. Regardless of what he says," John rolled his eyes at Sherlock, "Lestrade is an excellent investigator, one of the best."

"Which begs one to wonder why you have completely forgotten about his promotion."

John shook his head. "Of course I haven't."

"Your blog entries are still using his older title, you really do need to proofread more carefully, John. And why are we talking about Lestrade?" Sherlock said, suddenly annoyed and twisting his face in disgust. He shook his head as though to free it of debris and continued forward with his original train of thought, stepping towards his brother and forcing Mycroft to back up and sit back down in the worn, padded leather chair across from John. He fell into it with a soft thud. "Adam Raki! Wunderkind! He lived in New York for most of his life, so he's used to large cities, no surprise there, though his move to California is very strange. He was doing something, an experiment of some kind, a man like that doesn't just change his whole, repressed little life on a whim, I mean look at Mycroft, desk jockey of the gods, right there. What would make him pack it all in and run away? He likes computers, and he was involved in their observatory, heavily by the look of it. Spent his days and nights there, he still lives in a cottage next door to it, spending most of his time staring at the stars and calculating, ruminating, over and over, mapping and planning, searching, seeking..." Sherlock snapped his fingers, his a-ha! moment gaining fervent clarity. "Oh, who needs Mycroft, John, his input is so unnecessary when you have this mind right here to puzzle out my brother's little state secrets!" Sherlock tapped his forehead with the tip of his finger, his pacing becoming frantic as he pieced the hidden puzzles together. "Computers and space, the two great passions of Adam Raki. He's developed a program of some sort..."

Mycroft tried to keep himself as calm as possible under Sherlock's scrutiny, but it was a difficult expression to master when his brother was so dangerously close to the truth. Instead, he masked his alarm with his usual list, the calligraphic pen scratching lazily on yellow parchment paper, a mental exercise in compartmentalization that usually worked in highly stressful situations, in varying degrees of effectiveness. Right now he needed to deflect his brother's perceptions and he did it by concentrating on utter nonsense, which surprisingly came in handy on occasion:

1: He was running low on coffee at his office. The swill at the local cafe was horrid, and he hated the supercilious look the scruffy hipster barista gave him every time he added cream. A good dark roast, proper beans, roasted at just the right temperature and never burned. He would have to order them online, a Dominican espresso would not be out of order. Maybe even a Kenyan roast, though they tended to be bitter.

2: Why did Anthea bring him the pale blue shirt? He hated this one. Why did he even keep it in his closet? It reminded him of baby powder.

3: A knighthood? And Lestrade turned it down? What on Earth was the officer thinking? So many doors could have been opened on his career with such an honour, and it smacked of ingratitude. Perhaps he had political leanings, that could prove problematic. Mycroft was instantly disappointed, envisioning Lestrade as some late 1980's hippie, marching along the Berlin Wall in a pair of acid wash jeans and dancing when it was torn down. That was a sad day for those who had understood the benefits of a Cold War. Nikola Tesla rolled in his grave.

No, Lestrade did not seem to be the type to wander up and down streets chanting with a sign in his hand. Hitting people with one, maybe. Perhaps the refusal was about humble duty over gregarious ego? Being knighted for a job that was about service to the public might be considered bad form in the culture of law enforcement. Acts of bravery were actions expected of an officer of the law every day, as well as not being thanked for them. Lestrade may have considered accepting such a lofty attention narcissistic, perhaps even a cheapening of his proclaimed duties.

"It seems obvious to me...He's developed a computer program in relation to his study of space. This program is of vast interest to the military, of many nations, and could be sold to the highest bidder. But Adam Raki is a man of simple needs and hyperfocused passions..."

Mycroft was still stuck on Lestrade. The pen within his mind scratched loudly on that inner sepia paper, the point tearing a hole in the thick, tea coloured parchment, his mind's candlelight dangerously close to burning images into his memory with determined permanence. He called up the image of Lestrade, standing in front of the out of control car, gun drawn and trained on the mysterious, cursing Romanian, the car screaming to a halt, close enough for Lestrade to bang his fist on the hood.

4: This is how it happens on his mind's parchment, the events playing over the paper like sepia toned film. Everything slowed, the car's gears screaming loudly even at a snail's pace, the Romanian's growling sneer at the man standing in his way, Lestrade, catching Mycroft's eye, instantly understanding he was a hostage, the game changed, suddenly more dangerous, the madman recognizing he was going to chew a bullet if he didn't get rid of his passenger, Lestrade leaping out of the way as the Romanian nearly ran him down, the car skidding in a wide, slow circle, spitting stones into the air, the pebbles hitting Lestrade's furious face. His body tense, his neck a collection of thick sinews, the gun still held steady in front of him, fingers just itching to fire off a few rounds and disable the car outright. But there were people there, crowds gathered too closely, Lestrade moving his head left, then right, a slow motion shout at them to get back, his officers too late in controlling the curious onlookers. There could be no shoot out here. Not with a child lazily, slowly, a centuries long crawl, the gears of his bicycle clacking in loud gunshots alongside him, a small fast forward of events until the child stopped in front of Lestrade and asked, not so innocently, 'What's going on?'

"He's developed a program that can control any object sent into space and send back information. He originally created it for deep space exploration, as a method of using defunct equipment still floating around out there, off into the great infinity. But with this program he could interfere with all sorts of equipment, satellites, spacecraft and space stations, all at his mercy, all focused on what he wants to explore. A universal code that transverses the programs of all countries. He's found a way to make military combat in space impossible! All of it, tempered by Adam Raki's insatiable need to see stars! Oh, I'm sure there's a lot of people very angry about this! Is there anything more terrifying than a militant pacifist?"

Mycroft pinched his brow, instantly exhausted. The list burned up in his mind and the candle beside it was snuffed out. Sherlock's joy at discovering his brother's top secret mission was instantly deflated by his distracted ego. "It should be easy enough to stop him, if we can ever get to him. The program needs to be destroyed and he has to be persuaded never to develop it again."

"Yes, quite," Sherlock agreed. "He may need to be lobotomized."

"I wish you'd get off that tack. Nobody is giving *anyone* a lobotomy," John said, firm enough to suggest that Sherlock was actually considering this as a solution for any number of criminal cases.

Mycroft raised a brow and finally got up from the chair and marched with resolute exhaustion into what was, presumably, Dr. John Watson's former bedroom. "I'm getting dressed and then heading to my office," he announced. Lestrade's file was tucked tight under his arm, Sherlock's purple housecoat a snug fit around his waist.

"Better re-examine that diet," Sherlock said, and Mycroft fought the urge to hit him. "Maybe take up jogging. They do a lot of running in circles in Scotland Yard."

Smug bastard.

Mycroft slammed the bedroom door behind him.

~*~  
He was finally in the relative comfort of his office, the day had slipped easily into night, with darkness overtaking the rich antiquity of the room. Rich, polished oak surrounded him in embedded bookshelves that lined both walls, his desk a heavy throwback to when the realm of Brittania was at its peak, and Victoria's rule was creeping towards the twentieth century. He sighed, a small tumbler of brandy at his elbow as he once again took out the file on Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and laid all of the information out in terms of relevance.

He wasn't sure why this fascination had taken root, but now that it had he was even more surprised to discover that Lestrade was nothing like either John or Sherlock had suggested. In the case of Sherlock, it was clearly because his ego was getting in the way, and there was nothing worse to an inflated sociopath than the thought that someone other than them could function perfectly well without their influence. With John, it was a relentless altruism, focused primarily on a stellar career that had encompassed two decades worth of consistently good police work. The real Gregory Lestrade was somewhere in the middle, for while his professional reputation was flawless, his private life was a decided mess. Born in a council flat in the East End before it became gentrified, his father was an alcoholic, his mother a French immigrant from the province of Nice. She committed suicide in 1990 by throwing herself in front of a rail car not long after Greg's youngest sister, Sharon, was born. His parents had been separated for years before this incident, his mother estranged from their family save for periodic visits that were charged with chaos and her own propensity to drink. Her suicide was a rather sad testament to his mother's instability, one that had latched in an unhealthy manner to the elder Mr. Lestrade, who accepted her sporadic wanderings in and out of his children's lives no matter how disruptive it often was.

His father was likewise an inadequate parent, and Lestrade spent most of his teen years shuffled between his two older sisters who had both left home at a young age. The eldest, Betty Lestrade, had four children from three different relationships, and she lived in a tiny flat above a pub where she worked. She was a chubby woman, prone to dressing in sweat pants and tight fitting hoodies, mascara perpetually smeared beneath tired, bagged eyes. The second eldest was Jeanette, and she had one child, a thirteen year old girl named Sarah who was mostly raised by Jeanette's ex mother-in-law while Jeanette worked abnormally long hours managing a small organic grocery store. She was sleeping with the regional manager and had an unhealthy fixation on quinoa and kale. The third and youngest, Sharon Lestrade, was a dour faced woman in her mid twenties who possessed a certain anarchy to her demeanour that unsettled Mycroft. It was clear that though she was the youngest, she was also the family pot stirrer, as evidenced by various texts and emails sent to her by her sisters and a caught in the middle Greg, who tried to ease over ill feeling and was always lambasted in the end for it.

It was easy enough to crack a person's Facebook. Greg's was mostly abandoned, he hadn't updated it at all in four years and had only two pictures of martini glasses on it and a 'Happy New Year' meme. It was active solely for messaging from his sisters, which were frequent and overbearing. The text messages were coarse:

Betty: Sharon, stop being a bitch and just get the goddamned vanilla cake like I asked.

Jeanette: Is she doing it again? NO FUCKING LEMON. Omg, Sharon! Seriously!

Greg: Sharon just txted me she said she can only find the lemon.

Jeannette: FFS Sharon!

Betty: She does it on purpose! >:(

Greg: She said that's all that was left...

Jeanette: Omg. All the damn time, Sharon! I could have got that organic tempeh one from that place down the street baker going to give me a discount.

Betty: Tempeh? It tastes like dog food. You want James to eat a dog food cake? WTF I'm really fed up. Just done. WTF Sharon? Jesus. She knows James can't eat it. He's deathly allergic to lemon. I don't care if it's only flavouring, ffs, I ask for no lemon and she makes sure that's the one to get you can't trust her for nothing

Jeannette: Cake is here its fucking lemon curd full of fucking lemons lemony scented fucking lemon icing ffs Sharon this is just typical

Greg: Look, I'm picking up a new cake on the way, all right? Vanilla, like James wanted.

Betty: you better bring your handcuffs im gonna drown that bitch in lemon curd until her lungs start spitting pips

Sharon: (picture of lemon pie)

Jeanette: FUCK OFF, SHARON!

Mycroft checked the date. A week ago, Monday, after Gregory Lestrade's take down of a drug smuggler in the Whitechapel area. He'd worked three days straight without a blink of sleep. Despite this it was still Greg Lestrade, to the rescue with appropriate cake. It seemed Sharon had done a number of these sorts of transgressions for a long period of time. He made a mental note that should he ever have the displeasure of meeting her he would exercise full caution. She seemed a bit of a family rogue, and he knew what it was like monitoring that madness.

Not that he ever would have a chance to meet her. He shook his head. What an odd thought!

What he was definitely going to do was call Lestrade in the morning and arrange a meeting wherein they could discuss the finer points of the Romanian madman who seemed obsessed with the space addled Adam Raki, aka, The Man Who Would Own The Stars, as some former KGB operatives had nicknamed him. He wondered where the best place would be to have such a discussion, for he didn't want to have it around the hyper sensitized ears of Lestrade's investigative colleagues, and he certainly didn't want Lestrade poking around the corners of the secret service and Mycroft's exceptionally private office. A room at The Diogenes Club came to mind, but it was too stuffy and austere for the Inspector, and after some quiet rumination, Mycroft reasoned that a quiet discussion over dinner would not be out of order. Pleasant wine and talk of a dangerous villain and his murderous, Romanian madman associate. Yes, quite fitting.

What section was he on? Ah, yes, relationships. Many, varied, and inevitably doomed to failure. He was married for all of three years, hence the faded ring line Mycroft had spotted, and the break up was ugly. She'd dumped him for a lean, rich Italian and had emptied out most of his bank account besides. This wasn't the first time, his relationships with women seemed to follow this pattern. He gave, she took, then she left and took it all. Rinse, repeat over the expanse of nearly three decades. Every now and then Greg would forgo women and follow the exact pattern with male lovers, his open bisexuality a surprise (A pleasant one? Yes, perhaps, though Mycroft couldn't figure as to why). In all, Greg Lestrade had gone bankrupt three times as a result of these trysts, which never lasted longer than a month or two, save for the three year marriage which was wholly unsuitable from the start and was more a signal that Greg was aiming for a stability he had no clue how to anchor.

Mycroft reached for his brandy and took a long sip. The facts were everyone was looking for some version of that sort of happiness, the kind where life became a dull rote of expectation of normalcy, where the partner you chose didn't opt to destroy you on a whim because it was convenient for them. It was the main reason he kept himself free of such entanglements, they always ended up in pained hearts and aching disappointment. Best to keep the whole concept of relationships locked hard under ice.

Mycroft concentrated on Lestrade's extra-curricular activities, which were comprised of work and more work, and work again and in the tiny spaces in between pints at the pub and, to Mycroft's amusement, nights spent reading. He had a list of Gregory Lestrade's reading list, a series of purchases of books from Amazon that betrayed a wildly eclectic range of interests. He was an avid reader of historical fiction, namely detective stories set in the Victorian era, along with history books on Victorian life and woes. Dickens figured prominently. Larousse's Gastronomique, A Primer Of Modern Philosophy, several psychology textbooks, The Encyclopaedia Of Ships, A History Of Barbiturates, The Opium Eater, The Complete Works Of Edgar Allan Poe (illustrated edition), A Brief History Of Time (special coffee table edition), The Infinity Principle, Zen Meditations, Londoners--the list went on for several pages, all books in this current log bought within the last couple of years. Gregory had to be buried in books as much as Mycroft and Sherlock were, though his choices were wildly interspersed with volumes of fiction and odd injections of Victoriana. He shook his head over finding Mayhew's ' The London Underworld' on the list and put it away before he could find himself inwardly remarking on the man's highly fascinating choices.

He at last looked over Lestrade's latest cases and didn't find much of interest. A murder that was obviously committed by the husband here, a thievery from a daughter there. Break and enters and youthful suspects who had no respect for the law. Tedious people with small problems that they had to expand upon, make bigger until someone noticed. Greg seemed to have a firm handle on that reality, his notes beside certain suspect quotes betraying his doubts. 'Rubbish'. 'Lying sack of shit.' 'Wanker.'

Cases where Sherlock was involved did tend to be the big ones with complicated, far reaching implications, so much so that Mycroft had to wonder if Lestrade had some sort of pulse point on the scale of a case's significance. He also noticed there were certain cases he most definitely did *not* involve Sherlock, to the point of even making notes in the margins to other officers 'Not to mention it to Himself, under any circumstance'. It was a curious omission, though when he read over the cases Mycroft understood the why. It was easy to forget that humanity did wallow in some of the most vile, evil black pools and it was Lestrade's unfortunate job to fish out the victims of it. Definitely not something he would want Sherlock's brilliant mind to be tainted by. Some prison cells were just too dark.

Buried beneath all of this was another sampling of a case banned against Sherlock, the papers spare but well worn. Mycroft's breath caught and he took a sip of his brandy to settle his nerves. The image of Nigel Ibenescu stared back at him with mocking patronizing, the corner of his lip upturned in a half smile that lesser men would find charming. The scant information on him was clear enough: He'd been involved with a drug cartel in Romania and was the right hand man of the leader known only as Darko. They supplied heroin, cocaine and methamphetamines to the entirety of Eastern Europe and were very friendly with the Columbians, Darko himself making a few international trips there in the last couple of months. According to his reports, Nigel Ibenescu cut his ties with the cartel five years ago and escaped to America with two hundred thousand dollars in a duffel bag, small change for a druglord of his calibre. He'd been on Darko's hit list ever since.

Lestrade had been keeping tabs on him, knowing he was a good in when it came to getting the names of upper level druglords and carriers from Turkey and beyond who supplied London contacts. It was a smart move, and Lestrade had been dogged enough to contact FBI officials after one particular night of bloodshed between gang factions in Hackney and make a request for open communication. This was where his plan seemed to break down, for the FBI had no interest in ex druglords who weren't making any plans to reinstate their business on American soil, and he kept getting shunted over to the DEA, who likewise bungled all efforts to keep watch over Ibenescu. They lost him in a cafe in the Bronx and made no effort to step up the search. Lestrade was told if he wanted the guy so bad he had to put his file in Interpol. Through a series of phone transcripts, Mycroft read that Lestrade argued Nigel wasn't about to talk if he thought he was going to prison,and he'd made enough enemies with Darko to make sure he didn't last an hour in the general prison population. The message the DEA gave him was clear: They didn't have the manpower, or the inclination, to find him. If Lestrade wanted him so bad, he'd have to track the bastard himself.

Lestrade certainly did his best, though Nigel proved to be a slippery fish, willing to live rough if needed and keeping a low profile. This was wholly out of character for the man Mycroft had met that morning and Lestrade himself had made a pointed note in one of his many reports that the behaviour was unusual:

"Nigel Ibenescu is currently believed to still be in New York. His lack of activity is bothersome and if I didn't know better I'd say he was dead. Nigel is not a guy who lives this quietly, he's used to constant chaos and struggling for his life. His inactivity suggests to this officer that he's had some sort of cataclysmic event happen, something so profound in his life he's thrown all of his old habits away.

There has been no reconnaissance with Darko operatives on American soil, the few connections we do know about were murdered by the Columbians last month. Darko was behind in a few bills, which makes sense since Nigel was the one who did the majority of money handling, working the cartel's investments and making sure the people who were supposed to be paid for goods got their money. Since Nigel's departure, Darko has surrounded himself with lackeys and junkie yes men, all of whom rob him blind. The Columbians were angered when their main exporter to Eastern Europe shortchanged them by two billion dollars. There is a serious risk of a bloodbath on the horizon in Romania, and a nasty take over of the operations by Columbian interests. This could cause conflict amongst already established gangs in the area, a spillover that could result in some nasty retribution amongst Darko factions here in London.

The last known communication we can trace directly back to Nigel Ibenescu is that he answered a highly cryptic ad in Craigslist that was asking for someone's help in moving to California. It's unknown if he moved out of New York, and our American sources say no, though it must be reiterated that their information is sketchy at best. If California was his final destination or if he had been assassinated before he made it there, or if the ad was code for another job are all questions that have yet remained unanswered.

As of this date, there have been no further sightings of Nigel Ibenescu."

That might have been the end of that story for many an officer, especially since Nigel's crimes hadn't happened on UK soil, but Lestrade was a man who once he got his hook into something he held on with a tenacity that bordered on obsession. Routinely, Lestrade would make further notes on the case, outlining possible sightings and pestering his American contact in the DEA. He had a breakthrough two years ago when an actual photograph of Nigel Ibenescu on a beach in California suddenly surfaced. He was wearing an equally ugly shirt as the one Mycroft had seen him in, and was tipping a golden bottle of beer to his lips, his body lean and muscular and significantly more tanned. A pair of wet swim trunks clung to his flesh, sand glued to his feet and the back of his calves. Beside him, fully dressed in trousers and a buttoned down crisp yellow cotton shirt, the demure image of Adam Raki stood, hands in pockets, his profile staring out into the ocean.

Now he was getting somewhere. Mycroft snatched up the corresponding notes attached to the photograph and eagerly read:

"...Nigel Ibenescu is alive and well in California, and by the look of things, it's clear what's changed. The man standing beside him is Adam Raki, a former New York resident. He is an astrophysicist currently working at the California Observatory at Mount Wilson . According to reliable sources, Adam Raki has been in Nigel Ibenescu's company for quite some time, and that he was the originator of the Craigslist ad. Apparently he really did just need someone to help him move to California.

Adam Raki, as of this report, is 33 years old, has no living relatives and no known associates. He has never been in trouble with the law, save for 'suspicious activity' at a preschool playground which ended up being a meeting with his then girlfriend, Beth Buchwald. Adam is a quiet, extremely shy man whose isolating behaviour suggests classic signs of a social anxiety disorder. He is never seen in public places without Nigel at his side, and it's clear Nigel has become a 'bodyguard' of sorts for him. He is not a drug user, nor has any such history in himself or his family. In fact, the only thing Adam Raki seems addicted to are the stars in the sky. He works seven days a week at the observatory, and sources say he's so obsessed with space he goes home and studies it all night long as well. If this note contains more candour than usual, it's because of the nature of the person I am discussing within it. Adam Raki is wholly harmless, and I suspect Nigel Ibenescu has made himself equally benign to accommodate him. Why he would do this is up for conjecture, but I believe one could hazard a guess. Adam Raki is a beautiful man who has all the attributes of an angel. It's quite possible they are lovers."

Oh dear, oh dear, it looked as though Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was falling into the fiery pit of burnt sugar known as sentiment. Adam Raki certainly did look angelic, there was no question of his physical virtues, but the fact he had a Romanian gangster at his side was hardly due to matters of the heart. He was a hired gun, Mycroft was sure of it. Love was solely for a paycheque and the chance to fire a bullet.

Adam Raki, 'wholly harmless'. The very thought! Perhaps Lestrade was the dunce his brother suggested after all.

But then, there was a poignant nag within Mycroft's perceptions, the thought that Lestrade had been pursuing this case for the past three years, concerned about the fallout of a collapsing drug cartel upon London's streets. His worries were not unfounded, according to police reports, gang activity in certain target areas had gone up exponentially in the last few months, and that bloodshed at Hackney certainly did have Eastern European connections. Lestrade was intelligent enough to have sussed out that...Perhaps he was right about other things as well?

Shaking his head, Mycroft finished his brandy and gathered up the papers, stuffing them into Lestrade's weighty file. He paused over a photograph of the man, a journalist's shot of him chatting with a witness outside of a smashed out storefront. He was unaware he was being photographed, his attention solely for the person in front of him, frowning concern and careful listening of every word they said obliterating the world around him.

If Adam Raki was innocent, as Lestrade seemed to believe he was, then another visit to his place of residence would not be out of order. Mycroft touched his jaw where a concrete burn still smarted from when he'd spilled out of the car. He'd bring his own back up this time.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam Raki's flat reveals...Not much. Sherlock goes into overload. Mycroft and Lestrade meet at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been kindly commenting on this story!

IT'S THE SIMPLE THINGS  
chapter three

Sherlock, John and Mycroft stood at the door leading into Adam Raki's flat, surrounded by the heavily armed police firearms unit, machine guns at the ready for the first sign of trouble. Considering his near miss the day before one couldn't be too careful. Mycroft steeled himself, his body and pride still aching at the events he'd had to endure the last time he'd made this effort. He quickly pressed his fingertips along the concrete scrape at his jaw, feeling the rough, healing skin.

When one does not acheive one's goal the first time, try and try again. He clenched his hand into a tight fist and firmly knocked, three times.

Time to answer for your planned crimes, Adam Raki, the ones you haven't committed. Yet.

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time. And again, this time with an announcement of his arrival. "Mr. Adam Raki, I am Mycroft Holmes and I am here to discuss a matter of some urgency with you."

Silence.

"He's not home," John observed. His hands were in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket and he squinted into the sunlight as he viewed the length of the street, which was just as filthy and teeming with chain smoking mothers pushing cheap umbrella strollers as the day before. "Probably went grocery shopping. It is Tuesday, and that is macaroni and cheese day, quickly accompanied by a broccoli afternoon."

"He's usually back by now," Mycroft said, frowning.

"Well. If we're all set to party, why are we all standing around on the curb pretending this has stumped us? Pick. Lock." Sherlock jiggled a thin wire into the lock of the front door, and it easily opened, much to John's chagrin. Sherlock opened the door and bid Mycroft to enter. "Not very secure for a man who is hell bent on world domination, is it? After that altercation with his bodyguard, Nigel Ibenescu, it's quite obvious that Adam Raki has moved on to a far safer stronghold, possibly one not even in this country. I would check all airports, he'll be using an assumed name, possibly one of Romanian origin and..."

"Sherlock, he most certainly does still live here. I can see the glow of his computer from the landing." Mycroft crept up the narrow stairs, Sherlock and John cautiously following close behind him. Mycroft was beginning to get the nagging suspicion that Adam Raki was not quite as sophisticated when it came to espionage as he had originally thought. Remaining in this place of residence, which was obviously compromised, was an illogical act, and one Mycroft couldn't equate with the overly careful man he'd been gaining glimpses of.

But, then, perhaps there just wasn't much for anyone to find here. Mycroft stared at the pin neat flat, with its spotless used furnishings and spare kitchen, not a single item of decoration in the place save for a poster on the far wall tacked onto the water stained beige wallpaper with malleable blue rubber. Large, yellow print proclaimed what he was looking at. 'The Horsehead Nebula'. Mycroft inspected it with grave curiosity, the image of space gases and the colourful, wild energy of deep space a hint into Adam Raki's inner psyche. The poster had the look of being rolled into a loose cylinder several times and had probably accompanied Adam to every place he ever visited. There were tiny tears in the edges. There was a date of printing in the bottom right hand corner, barely readable. The poster was a decade old, proving its sentimental significance.

The entire flat was scrubbed, clean, all items within geometrically placed with all the precision of a Zen master. Despite the madness of his bodyguard, there was no evidence of chaos here. If Sherlock was searching for data, it was woefully lacking. Mycroft had never seen a space so devoid of personality, save for the little injections of stars and galaxies, books on astronomy neatly placed against the far wall, and arranged in strict, alphabetical order. The laptop remained open on the kitchen counter, sending off the blue glow he'd seen as he walked up the stairs to enter the flat. Sherlock stood in the middle of it all, his shins pressed against the glass coffee table in the middle of the open room, while John gave the loo a quick once over.

"There's two towels. And two face cloths. And two bars of soap. And two toothbrushes. One dark blue with stars on it, and one electric. Shared shampoo. Jasmine scented. It smells like bleach in here, it's so clean I could do surgery." John opened the medicine cabinet and frowned over the contents. "Percocets, Oxycodone, iodine, first aid kit." He took the kit out and was shocked at how well supplied it was. "Gauze, disinfectants, bandages, surgical tape, sterilized stitching and stitching needles, rubbing alcohol. Quite the well organized little patch-up kit, I couldn't have made a better one myself." He snapped the metal lid closed and put it back where he found it, closing the cabinet door. "The mirror is gleaming. A bit OCD, this one. What do you think, Sherlock?"

Mycroft observed his brother with deep interest, for Sherlock was silent and unmoving as he stood in the centre of the living room, his mind trapped within his so called palace extrapolating all manner of information that couldn't be surrendered by surface observation alone. This was not at all how a memory palace worked, that was simply a storage system and Sherlock's interpretation had far more imaginative reshapings of that particular concept, not the least of which was a certain brand of disturbing, sometimes chemically induced inner hallucinations that did worry Mycroft. He called it his mind palace, a place of reasoning, but Mycroft wasn't so sure it wasn't his brother's hidden key that would unlock his safeguards and plummet him into madness. He frowned, watching as Sherlock's head ticked as though making vast calculations, fingers splayed and tapping off hidden files within his mind's admittedly limited hard drive.

Mycroft knew Sherlock would stand like this for quite some time. He hoped they could remain alone in the flat for its duration. He glanced out the curtains and gave the signal to the firearms team to disperse, and they did so without question, automatic rifles and black ops gear suddenly disappearing into several cars that sped off into secretive hollows within the city. Mycroft gave the now quiet street a wincing once over before letting the curtain fall. He noted that even the windowsill was spotless. Adam Raki clearly liked his life to be exceptionally clean.

John puttered about the apartment, picking up books and reading the titles with frowning interest, curious over the lack of fiction and the overabundance of textbooks and thick tomes on space. In the far right corner an actual spacesuit from NASA was on display, and John frowned into the fishbowl reflection of his face, his fingertips tapping on the thick glass surface. One of the originals, designed by NASA, a Gemini mercury G2-C training suit from the late sixties. Quite fascinating. Mycroft, who usually had no interest in actions that happened well beyond the little garbage strewn sphere they all festered on, couldn't help but inspect the detail of the suit, the sandy deposits in its seams more likely from Arizona than the moon, but imagination could spark a big leap.

Mycroft steered his attention back to the laptop on the kitchen counter, the screen saver one of bursting nebulas that exploded across the screen, leaving planets and galaxies behind. To his shock, it wasn't password protected, and Mycroft easily gained all access to Adam Raki's files. Curious. Most of them were heady calculations on the age and circumference of galaxies in deep space, the numbers and information melding into an alchemical magic that Mycroft had no clue how to decipher. Hundreds of folders with corresponding hundreds of files within them, each folder representative of a galaxy and each file representing planet formations or stars within it. He was sure it was fascinating to someone who had a clue what all those calculations meant, though the smatterings of deep space photographs accompanying the folders allowed some insight. Long numbers, pinpointing bursts of energy that had once exploded in space. They were markers for other astronomers, specific locations in space that one could turn one's attention to in order to find these swirling masses.

Maps. Adam Raki was making maps of the infinite.

He searched for the program Adam had developed, but it was nowhere in evidence on this computer. Of course, this was his hobby workstation, the place where his simpler passions could be easily expressed without the fear of anyone finding his more nefarious activities. The actual program would be on his person, or hidden away on a flash drive, tucked away in a locked vault, as these things usually were. It wouldn't be in this apartment, it was hardly secure enough, they'd broken in with a pin. But Adam would work on the program in here. He was comfortable in the sterile confines of this flat. He was a creature of intense habits, and once Adam Raki was used to something it was very difficult for him to deviate away from it. The flat was his current constant.

Pushing past Sherlock's near comatose state as he continued to inwardly download a countless ream of information, though what he gleaned from this spare flat was anyone's guess, Mycroft began what was usually his agents' work. He placed a hidden camera in the upper corner of the window, and another in the kitchen, angled to give a perfect view of everyone in the combined living space. He then joined John in the bedroom and placed a tiny, imperceptible camera the size and shape of a nail above the small closet opposite the bed. It wouldn't be the first time he'd caught someone spilling secrets in their sleep.

John gave him a pained expression and Mycroft sighed over it. "Really, John, one can't threaten the western world and not expect a little wrinkle in one's privacy."

"There's only one bedroom."

"Yes, it's a cheap flat."

"There's two of everything. The closet's divided. Ugly short sleeved rayon shirts on one side, long sleeved plain cotton shirts on the other." John chewed the inside of his cheek at Mycroft's blank expression. "There's no sign that anyone sleeps on the couch."

Mycroft raised a brow. "What are you inferring, John?"

"I'm not inferring a thing, it's obvious. They're sleeping together."

Mycroft was amused by this. He gave the bedroom, with its space theme coverlet and freshly plumped pillows encased in accompanying comet patterns a shrugging once over. Black curtains blocked out all light save for the tiniest sliver that cut across the galaxies swirling on the printed duvet. The curtains billowed slightly, and John peeked past them out the window, nodding at the stained screen. "There's a heavy smoker living here, with a non-smoker. Nigel Ibenescu, probably, he blows smoke out this screen so it won't go in the apartment." John let the curtain fall, enshrouding the room in its familiar darkness. He tapped a globe that had been placed on the end table beside the bed and the room suddenly erupted into stars that slowly revolved across the walls.

"This must be Adam Raki's side of the bed," John observed.

"There is absolutely no reason to believe that Adam Raki is sleeping with anyone, John. You yourself had to fight off those rumours with all you had in you, and even with a wife and a baby on the way you're still arguing the fact that you and Sherlock aren't a *thing*. Just as you weren't, nor are Adam Raki and Nigel Ibenescu. This is as gross an assumption as the ones made about you."

John Watson was certainly taking enough cues from his brother to earn an annoying place within Mycroft's tightest circle, his attempt at interpreting clues laughable. Lestrade had fallen into a similar sentimental trap, believing Raki and Ibenescu to be lovers when the far more likely scenario was one of mad protector and disturbing, cerebral psychopath. No, the heart has no place here amongst fiery gases that blinked in threat against the Earth's existence, an expanding universe that was set to wander off aimlessly until their very orbit dissipated, leaving a series of dead rocks behind. Adam Raki was not a passionate creature, he had a similar ice that Mycroft understood well. Orderly. Reasoned. Calculating. These things did not make for amorous men.

But John was adamant, and he shook his head in protest. "I had my own room. They're sharing a closet, you don't just do that with anyone. This side of the bed doesn't have a thing on it, but there's coffee rings on the end table, and look, isn't that a crossword puzzle and a pen? This is Nigel's side of the bed. They are doing far more than cohabiting." John paled and glanced up at the closet. "You really should take that camera down from there, if that gangster fellow was pissed before..."

"You worry too much, John. I assure you, there has been nothing in my recent surveillance to suggest that such a union is taking place. We live in strange times, John, where not even friendship is safe from the suspicion of grinding sexual organs and panting orgies."

"I suppose you would know," John deadpanned. He sighed heavily and left the bedroom, Mycroft following him. Sherlock was still in the living room, barely moving save for a flick of his right hand, the gesture repeated over and over. John let out a small cry of alarm and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, shaking him slightly and forcing him to leave his mind palace, otherwise known as his little realm of madness hiccupping along his consciousness in a tight loop. Sherlock blinked as he came back to the nearly empty, spotless room his hands clasped tight at the back of his neck. He further shook his head as though to clear it, his shoulders slumped as he staggered back. Mycroft watched his brother with some alarm as he collapsed onto the hard sofa, fingertips now pressed tight against his temples.

"I remember now, why I have no interest in space. It's just so bloody *vast* isn't it? It's not wise to try and put the whole universe in your head, there's no room at all for anything else! My head feels compressed, like it's overstuffed and ready to burst." Sherlock groaned and sank his head into his hands. "He put a short circuit in my mind palace, I couldn't keep up with all the information. Unbelievable, how does this man function?"

John glanced around the flat, confused by Sherlock's confession, a feeling that Mycroft himself was inclined to mirror. "What do you mean?" Mycroft asked, frowning. "No one has ever 'short-circuited' you before."

"He did when I asked him to be best man at my wedding," John reminded him.

"A very minor blip, and I had fully expected you to infer my unspoken words. Highly unperceptive of you, John." He groaned and rubbed his temples, the ache there appearing to grow. "I have never tried to unravel the mysteries of the entire universe before, so let's just say Adam Raki has a bit of an advantage in that regard. It's all in evidence within this apartment, the need he has for order and control because so much of his mind is concentrating on things that are well beyond understanding and categorization. He skips along the fantastical peripheries of known physics, he bends quarks into his world view, he is constantly expanding inside of his head and there is no doubt in my mind that, much like our own universe, he will eventually dissipate. No, this is no easy mind..." Sherlock's leapt up from the couch, his long strides frantically pacing in front of the window. "He has lived his life with well placed anchors but nothing like what he's found now. What is it? What has come into Adam Raki's life that has stabilized it enough to keep him from being consumed by the tails of comets?"

There was little chance to think about Sherlock's observations, oblique as they were, for the roof of the flat was suddenly pummelled by stomping footsteps, heavy enough to make the plaster chip and fall. Sherlock, John and Mycroft all stared up at the ceiling in mute wonder, and if he listened carefully, Mycroft could hear staccato cockney cursing and choice words answering in equally miserable Romanian.

Nigel Ibenescu was on the roof, and he wasn't alone.

Before any of them could react, there was a slam of a door up above and then stomping feet on metal stairs, two familiar voices, one in determined hot pursuit. The side coat closet door suddenly opened, revealing a hidden set of stairs that led to the roof of the building, and Nigel Ibenescu, still holding the gun he'd stolen from Mycroft the previous morning, spilled out into the living room. He was wearing a rayon shirt covered in inked pineapples, and he sported a series of new bruises across his already scarred nose, from which blood poured freely. He took one look at the stunned trio and, without a word to any of them, he chucked a kitchen chair at the window, shattering it completely before leaping out of it.

"Stop, you fucking stupid crazy bastard!"

Running out of the closet, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard barrelled close after him, and he didn't hesitate, not one second, when Nigel jumped out of the smashed out front window and leapt from it to the ground a good two stories below, Lestrade immediately out the window with him.

Frantic, Mycroft ran to the window, wind billowing the thick curtains inward, the fabric snagging on cut glass. Through some miracle Lestrade and Nigel had bounced harmlessly off the tented awning over the top of the chips shop, breaking their fall. They were now having a serious scuffle in the middle of the street, rolling back and forth and narrowly missing cars that careened onto the sidewalk in a bid to avoid them.

Fuelled by adrenaline, Mycroft sped out of the flat, taking the steps to the ground two at a time, John and Sherlock lagging behind him as he stumbled out into the street. Lestrade and Nigel were now punching the living life out of one another, kicks to the abdomen, nasty punches across bloodstained jaws. It was a quite a spectacle to watch, for Lestrade, cursing as much as Nigel was giving him, got in a quick upper cut that left Nigel reeling and, to Mycroft's unflinching respect, Lestrade snatched up a stray beer bottle from the gutter, smashed its end on the curb and held the jagged edge at Nigel's throat, forcing him to acquiesce long enough to get the cuffs on him. Lestrade lost his gun when he fell, but Nigel was still armed. He kicked Mycroft's stolen Glock out of Nigel's hand and sat on his back as the cuffs found their way onto the snarling beast still trying to fight him off.

Good gracious, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade certainly knew how fight dirty!

Lestrade stood up in the centre of the street, clearly the victor even if his mouth and nose were spewing blood, superficial cuts from the broken window sliced across every exposed area of skin. His coat was torn at the shoulder, his ripped cotton shirt ragged along his side, exposing his midriff and a large tattoo that Mycroft quickly honed in on, observing how it rose like a tidal wave up from the waistband of his trousers and licked around the heavily muscled pad of his chest. Lestrade was filthy and sweaty, breath heaving out of him in tired exertion, his bloodied face grimacing as he handed off Nigel to one of his officers to shove into the back of a panda. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had just taken out a suspect he'd been hunting down for the past three years and Good Lord...

The view of unabashed, absolute *virility* from where Mycroft was standing was *spectacular*.

"Oi! You!" Lestrade was shouting in his direction and it took Mycroft a few moments to realize the exclamation was directed at him. "That's right, red knickers! What's all this, then?"

Behind him, Sherlock sniggered and Mycroft stomped on his foot with his heel, causing Sherlock to howl in pain.

"We are investigating an unrelated matter, DCI Lestrade, nothing of your concern."

Lestrade wasn't having any of that. He stood near nose to nose with Mycroft, who could smell the sweat and dirt of the street off of him, and underneath this the delectable musk of a quality cologne. No ships on bottles for this one, Mycroft thought with interest. He smiled at Lestrade with genuine amusement, allowed his cold facade to slip, just a little, in the battered man's presence. "Allow me to introduce myself. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. He may have mentioned me..."

He held out his hand and Lestrade shook it. His palms were hot but not damp, his grip firm with a touch of restraint. An inexplicable jolt shivered up Mycroft's spine and he broke the contact, clasping his hands behind his back. No touching. The man was hot enough to melt him.

"Not at all," Lestrade said, frowning, and Mycroft tried and failed to keep a scowl directed at Sherlock off his face. "I know you by reputation, had some sketchy MI6 paperwork come down, had to clarify some of the sloppy bits your lower level agents pencilled in. Wrong descriptions, vague analysis of that bombing back in February, smudged penmanship--lawyers have field days with shit like that in court. Wouldn't be too hard on them, though, the young ones never are that observant in the beginning, that's something you learn over time. Oi! Get that bastard to the station and lock him down! Charge him with reckless driving, fleeing the scene of an accident, arson, and hostage taking! I got a dozen more on top of that, Nigel, so kiss my ass!"

"Fuck you! Du-te dracu! Si dracu 'ca steregoi cu tine!"

The young officer in charge of Nigel's ride gave him a sharp nod before getting in the panda and driving off towards the station, Nigel furiously cursing and kicking at the windows. Lestrade turned his attention back on Mycroft. "I get why these two idiots are here, but I'm not getting why you are. I know enough about you through the grapevine to know you've read my file, probably gave me a right colonoscopy while you were at it, so you're perfectly aware that I didn't want Sherlock involved in this case. It's got some complications I don't think he'd understand."

"Complications involving Adam Raki," Mycroft said, pursing his lips. "You seem an intelligent man, despite what my brother says.."

Lestrade raised a brow at Sherlock.

"...I'm sure you are then well aware that Adam Raki is under strict observation as to his movements and actions..."

Lestrade let out a snort of laughter at this. Mycroft stopped mid-sentence and regarded him with confusion. "Inspector Lestrade, this is a matter of international importance..."

Lestrade howled in laughter at this, his eyes wide and his bloodied face in a gory eruption of mirth. He pointed at Sherlock and then at John. "Oh come on, you're taking the piss! You put him up to this, right? Bloody hell, you can't be serious? Little Adam Raki? Have you ever even met the man?"

"Unfortunately, I have only had the misfortune of meeting his bodyguard," Mycroft stoically replied.

Lestrade was still chuckling as he took out his mobile from the deep pocket of his coat and dialled a number he knew by heart. He pressed it close to his ear, all the while grinning like a madman at Mycroft. "Adam! How goes the lecture?"

Well, this was curious. Mycroft tried to keep his jaw from dropping, he really did.

Lestrade was grinning at him like he was something sweet he'd just eaten. (Really, what a strange analogy! Dear inner parchment, stop your scribbling!) " Yeah, most professors are a dry bunch, not a humorous bone in their bodies. Well *I* thought the joke was funny. Look, got a bit of problem today with your man, Nigel. Yeah, he's going to the station. Nah, not Darko, some MI6 wanker."

Mycroft bristled at this. That sweet treat was a tad bitter, now.

"Gave me a hell of lot of trouble, let me tell you, gave me no choice but to arrest the son of a bitch. Look, we've had this conversation before, Adam, yes, Nigel *can* be one hell of a son of a bitch. Right. Well, we'll let him out on bail once we've had a good chat, you know how it is. I know you've been telling him, but he's a stubborn bastard never does nothing the easy way. Yeah, he'll probably call you crying again. I know, sucks to be you. Right. See you later then, Adam."

Mycroft stood dumbfounded on the curb as Lestrade hung up his cell and tossed it back into the deep pocket of his ruined grey overcoat.

"You've been in regular contact with Adam Raki?"

"Of course I have, how else was I going to get to Nigel? You guys need a lift anywhere? Not you, rosy knickers, you have to come back to the station with me and threaten to make a statement about being Nigel's hostage. That ought to be worth at least one name of Darko's punters out of him. Got quite the road burn on your cheek, there, could have been avoided if you'd just dialled me up."

Mycroft uneasily followed Lestrade to his grey Mercedes, parked halfway down the shattered block. Behind them, Sherlock and John were sniggering amongst themselves, John unsuccessfully trying to hide his amusement beneath a cough muffled by his fist. It sputtered over his knuckles, a choked laugh that he was forced to swallow.

"Rosy knickers."

Sniggering. Sporfles. Infuriating mirth. Mycroft cast daggers with his eyes at his brother as he glared at him over his shoulder, only to witness both Sherlock and Dr. Watson collapse in a fit of giggles against Adam Raki's apartment door. Mycroft sucked his teeth and sank into the passenger seat of Lestrade's Mercedes, his mood miserable.

"Sherlock never mentioned he had a brother," Lestrade said as they drove off. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror and cursed. "I look a real mess. Leave it to Nigel. There's a bunch of damp towelettes from a take away somewhere in the side door pocket, can you please grab me a handful?"

Mycroft peered down at his side, the door's pocket jammed with all manner of napkins, plastic knives and spoons and, underneath it all, vinegar scented towelettes. He handed four of them to Lestrade and watched how he tore the packets open with his teeth and helplessly wiped at his smashed up face as he headed towards the highway. Blood smeared and flaked off, the towelettes hardly doing a thing. He glanced at himself again in the mirror. "Bloody hell."

Mycroft took one of the towelettes and tore open the package for Lestrade, handing him the damp, thin cloth. Lestrade wiped at his face roughly, opening healing wounds and hissing over the sting. "As you know, my brother only has interest for those things and people as they pertain to his needs. And he has many, and I have been, admittedly, his keeper for quite some time. I must say, Inspector, I am quite happy that you have managed to take up some of that slack, keeping him occupied with your more challenging cases. It is appreciated."

"Yeah, well, I can't say he's not brilliant even if he is a total arse."

"You have no argument from me there." Mycroft tore open another towelette and shook it open before handing it to Lestrade. "I'm curious over how it is you know me. Poorly executed paperwork, you said?"

"Her Majesty's Secret Service isn't big on day to day detailing on the books, that I'm well aware of," Lestrade said, and wiped at the corners of his mouth. His face was now pink instead of gory red. "Had some gaps in information in a bombing case, and it turned out your lot were responsible for it. You gave the agent in charge a right hiding as I recall, even sent my department a formal letter of apology. Of course, I'm no idiot, it was probably done on purpose, you probably made a deal with the bombers or some such thing, making sure the paperwork wouldn't gel in court. That's how these things work, isn't it?"

"You're a rather suspicious man," Mycroft said, but couldn't help but give Lestrade a small smile. He tore open another packet, but this time, held it aloft. "Please, allow me."

He wiped at Lestrade's cheek, and why on Earth was his hand trembling like that, the thin barrier of vinegar infused tissue not at all a good barrier against the rough sampling of skin, and its radiating, captivating heat. He bared touched the smudge of blood at all before hastily tucking the offending bit of wet cloth into an empty coffee cup in the cup holder beside him.

"It's my job to think people are shifty, because they usually are. They got selfish aims in mind, even when they don't think they do." He gave Mycroft a sidelong glance. "You were hunting down Adam Raki yesterday morning? What the devil for?"

"Classified..."

"You think he's doing some kind of space weapon thing or something?"

Mycroft's smile was strained.

"You couldn't be more off the mark. When you meet him you'll know what I mean. He's this tiny little thing, wouldn't hurt a fly, head full of space, in a big thoughts kind of way. His own shadow makes him nervous. He's got Nigel wrapped right around his little finger, that guy can't breathe without Adam in the room. It's why he went after you like he did, thought you were one of Darko's flunkies there to do his precious spacebaby harm. He went full on berserker, you're lucky you're alive." Lestrade shook his head. "He's going to have to calm down for a few hours before I can talk to him. He was still all riled up from yesterday, can't talk that guy down from crazy, you have to wait until he frets it out."

"A few hours?" Mycroft checked his watch. It was just after noon.

"Yeah. You got somewhere you got to be? I can process you quick at the station and then send you on your way, get one of the pandas to drop you off and pick you up later when Nigel's finally ready to have a chat."

Mycroft found himself enjoying the look of Lestrade's stern profile, his face stained pink from blood, a bruise beginning at his temple. He bit his bottom lip and frowned as he looked on him, curious of this man who was both reckless and powerful in ways Mycroft hadn't expected. "Why were you there yesterday? Have your people been putting Nigel on surveillance too?"

"Since the minute they set foot in London. Adam knows about it, I've talked to him off and on through the years. Been trying to get him to convince Nigel to talk and give us a lot more, and Adam knows it's for the best, but Nigel is one stubborn idiot. Adam is here on loan from the Mount Wilson Observatory, recording a bunch of TED talks at Oxford, a series about the age of galaxies in deep space. Really interesting stuff, if you're into that. It's amazing, they can actually measure the age of supernova remnants thanks to the synchrotron emissions, usually radio waves, their creation leaves behind."

"I wouldn't have thought you to be an amateur astronomer."

"Oh, I'm a lot of things." Lestrade grinned at Mycroft. "I get that Sherlock doesn't like letting in anyone else's shine, so I admit it, I dull it down a bit."

"Until a few years ago, Sherlock had no idea the Earth revolved around the sun. Or the names of the planets."

"He doesn't know what he's missing. But I get it, some people get so focused on what they're passionate about they block everything else out. Adam is like that, the guy can't even order a pizza without it frazzling him too much. Nigel takes care of all of that."

Mycroft's interest was piqued. "What do you mean? He's like his keeper?"

"He's a big help, yeah." Lestrade licked his lips and hissed over the cut he found there. He touched the injury absently with his fingertips, Mycroft spending far too much time watching the action, burning the memory of every ridge of those fingertips meeting the warmth of Lestrade's lower lip. "Adam has a head full of really big things. He's obsessed with how the universe is made, you can't get bigger than that. I mean, as a layman's example, we get these images from Hubble of deep space, of the Horsehead Nebula and Orion. We think that's what they look like. But Adam explained to me, they're images of a distant past, not the present. We see the birth of these galaxies but we don't have a clue if they're still alive or not."

"One would argue it doesn't matter, the fact they exist is enough."

"I don't know about that. We look in the sky and see ghosts. We have no idea what those galaxies look like in real time, they could have snapped out of existence by now or been sucked in a massive supernova's gravitational pull or just drifted apart into nothing. There's tens of thousands, if not millions, of years between those postcards."

A rather handsome Detective Inspector could put quite a crag in your perceptions, he could topple all of the self mythology you often mull over in one wholly unrelated sentence. All those arguments against sentiment, for example, and how Icemen didn't have a need to thaw.

"You can't always trust the information you've been given," Mycroft said.

What he didn't add, was, 'Not even the things you tell yourself.'

"Exactly."

The Mercedes drifted easily through traffic and Mycroft mused on what his day was set to entail. Dull reporting of events and then answering to his own superiors over how the entire secret surveillance had gone so wrong. But it wasn't all bad, he was enjoying the time he was spending with Lestrade, getting to know the man beyond the pages of his file. He had surprising insights and was able to connect deeply with the one person who had actually short circuited Sherlock's mind palace.

"You still have a lot of blood on you," Mycroft observed, and Lestrade cursed as he glanced again in his rear view mirror. Mycroft gestured to his torn shirt and grey overcoat. "Perhaps you should stop off somewhere to get changed. It's not quite red knickers, but I doubt you're going to be able to walk through the Yard without a good ribbing. You did say it will take hours before Nigel can be interrogated and I am open for discussion in that time." Mycroft's expression became dour. "But not at the Yard. Too many nosy Parkers, if you get my meaning. My own office is a likewise unsatisfying space for privacy. It is close to one o'clock and neither of us have eaten. Shall we do lunch?"

Lestrade raised his brows at this, putting on the blinker to take them off the highway. "I, uh, think that might be an interesting way to kill some time." He gave Mycroft a lopsided grin and gestured to the torn shoulder of his coat and the long rip down his white cotton shirt. "But I can't exactly go for lunch in tatters now, can I?"

"We can stop at The Diogenes Club," Mycroft quickly said. "I'm sure they will have something adequate in your size."

"I was thinking more along the lines of just stopping off at my place," Lestrade said, still grinning. He gave Mycroft a polite nod that had more cheek in it than not. "If that isn't a matter of national security."

"I don't believe so," Mycroft said. And smiled. He liked the easy way it grew in Lestrade's company, not strained or forced like it usually was around Sherlock and John, and it didn't have that official stamp of plainness upon it. No, the muscles in his face felt oddly relaxed, bits of himself slipping into a far more comfortable fit.

"You gave me the slip pretty easy yesterday, I hope you don't plan on pulling another runner. I imagine it was a tad chilly during your journey."

"A delightful street tailor helped me out."

"Stained trousers and ratty sweater with a dab of l'eau d'urine?"

"Almost. Brown leather pimp coat, circa 1974, and flip-flops for irony towards the winter season."

Lestrade laughed. "No way! You had to wander around in public in that get up?"

"All the way to Baker Street. It's a wonder I have toes."

Lestrade pulled the Mercedes off the highway and Mycroft observed they were driving through a fairly suburban area of London, a section of the city he'd rarely visited. Thick trees lined the streets, ancient lamp posts hinting at their real age. Crumbling Victorian manors had disappeared, giving way to curving condominiums and stacked row houses that packed large neighbourhoods in as tight a space as possible.

"You could have come out of the woodwork, you know. I would have given you a ride home."

"You would have asked too many questions."

"Who's to say I'm not going to ask plenty over lunch?"

"I may not answer all of them."

"National security."

"Correction, *international* security."

"Well, go big or go home, I say."

Mycroft toyed with the corners of a wrapper of one of the used towelettes. "I hope you won't regret this decision. I have a reputation for being very thorough."

"I very much doubt this will not be enjoyable, it's not every day I get to bring a sexy double oh seven home. If you're thinking I'm the man who knows too much, guess again. I'm strictly street level in my outlook. Don't really care much for politics, and I'm too damned busy at my job taking down murderers, thieves and drug runners. I haven't a clue who got their finger on the button these days. Besides, you've read my file. I have three sisters. You thought having a brother was bad. Imagine being the only injection of testosterone in that pecking order of hens and being a middle child besides. It's why I can deal with Sherlock. He's a piece of cake compared to that lot, and I'm not exaggerating. So no, I don't exactly have much time or head space to dedicate to the pulse of the world." He gently touched the raspy bit of injured skin at Mycroft's jaw, his fingertips sparking along the healing scrape. "That looks like it hurts."

Mycroft swallowed, hard, the heat of Lestrade's fingers making his belly quake. "It's not so bad."

Lestrade was saying something, but Mycroft couldn't hear him. He was still hearing the phrase 'sexy double oh seven' on a constant loop, the easy cadence of Lestrade's voice making his spine turn to jelly. Sexy. Did Lestrade just call him sexy? He didn't. It was a joke. Not to be taken seriously.

Laugh, you idiot, laugh.

Mycroft snorted and blushed and grinned and dammit he was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This man, this *handsome* man, was inviting him up to his condo, and he called him sexy and he...Oh dear God. Stop grinning, you stupid moron, you stupid...

"You know I was married, right?"

Ah yes, there it was, buzzkill in effect. He should be grateful. Cool ice. Keep your levels on frostbite, Mycroft, you foolish, stupid...

"Totally didn't work. My first time trying it on, and it was for all the wrong reasons. She was from Sweden and needed citizenship, and we thought we could swing this open relationship thing, and...Didn't work, of course. Those kinds of arrangements never do, I think people are hard wired to be possessive. Been a couple of years now since the divorce. Haven't really been seeing anyone, job gets well in the way of that."

"Yes," Mycroft sadly agreed. "It can be a challenge to juggle career and relationships."

"So you're telling me you've got a broken heart or two behind you, then. She must have got right under your skin to get into that vault. You got a reputation, though I'm sure you've heard it. They call you 'Iceman' in the white collar crimes division."

Mycroft cleared his throat, his attention diverted to the silver line that decorated the dashboard of the Mercedes. He absently trailed his finger along it. "He was married and I adored him until I discovered I wasn't his only conquest at the time."

"So, you're gay."

"So are you, on occasion."

"Fair enough." Lestrade grinned again as he brought the Mercedes into the underground parking of a low level condominium, its construction comprised of tinted blue glass and black steel beams. He parked the car in what was presumably his spot, easing the Mercedes beside a large, rusty pick-up truck that was practically spilling tools. "This guy always tries to take two spots. I barely have room to park the car here half the time." He took the key out of the ignition and the car smoothly drifted into sleep. He turned to Mycroft, a lopsided smile seeming to challenge him.

"I'm going to say something that might be offensive."

"I'm glad for the warning."

"You can slap me after if you like."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You're nothing like your brother."

"I thought you said you were going to say something insulting."

"From the second you've sat in this car, I've been wanting to kiss you."

Mycroft faltered, his reasoning suddenly tilting backwards and forwards, like a wayward dingy on an ocean threatening to topple over and capsize. He steadied himself by pressing his fingertips hard against the dashboard, his eyes closed and lips pressed tight as he forced himself into a sense of calm that was absolutely false.

He wasn't going to put his heart in it. Of course not. He didn't have one, Sherlock said so. Just an empty cavity where the experience of love once chiselled its care out of him when it was destroyed. He would approach this predicament with fervent self denial, he would tell Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade that he had best put aside his foolish notions and he will place his mind back in his head and not on the one between his legs.

Mycroft took a deep breath. His voice was soaked up by the tension laying thick in the air in the car. He felt muffled by it.

"Wh-Why don't you, then."

Gentle heat and musk, the scent of iron, the taste of that rusted metal on the tip of his tongue as Gregory's lips met his, shockingly soft and hot, searching in delighted curiosity. Entire universes inside of Mycroft crashed, the list scribbled so quickly on parchment as to why this was a bad idea the paper was torn and soaked with ink, fires burning every file, every doubt, and oh Gregory's lips were lovely, and he tasted gorgeous and Mycroft was sure the man was licking his heart it pounded so hard it was doing all it could to crawl right out of his throat and down into Gregory Lestrade's belly.

Gregory pulled away and Mycroft leaned forward, only to tuck his head to his chest and lean back, unsure of what was supposed to happen next. He had no way of knowing, he had research and had observations but he had no real experiences of his own, it was all voyeurism, knowledge earned from rote. His heart was pounding so fast. He could barely breathe.

Something warm met the side of his face and he was shocked to discover that Gregory was stroking his cheek, the backs of his knuckles dragging down the length of his jaw, settling with a moue of discomfiture at the scrape on his skin. "You're lovely," Gregory said, and he was smiling, and that was good, wasn't it?

"We should go upstairs," Mycroft said, not sure where the words were coming from, because he certainly wasn't able to consciously articulate them any longer. His voice felt raspy. Hoarse.

"Good idea," Gregory said, and grinned wide, biting his bottom lip in a mischievous smirk as he got out of the car and waited for Mycroft to follow him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Lestrade interrogate Nigel. Damn, but that crazy Romanian sure knows how to figure out the working's of a bloke's heart! Dinner, and there's food on the menu this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who is commenting! Big heart eyes and happiness! <3 <3
> 
> A note: A strigoi is an undead monster (read, vampire) in Romanian mythology. Nigel is being a dick.

IT'S THE SIMPLE THINGS  
chapter four

DCI Lestrade sat across the steel table, slouched uncomfortably in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest. He was tired as he regarded the man sitting bloody and morose opposite him, blond hair hanging in sweaty strings in front of his amber eyes. Beside Lestrade, Mycroft sat cross legged, pretending to study the thick amount of case notes Lestrade had compiled on this miserable rogue ex-druglord from Romania, his silence and why he was there meant to create an aura of unease. Mycroft was well adept at this, and Lestrade couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in the fact he'd used the legendary 'Iceman's' reputation to his advantage.

Of course, this whole ruse Mycroft was putting on wasn't entirely false, he was a spy, after all, some sort of big player in the mysterious upper echelons of MI6. 'A low level employee of the British government'--Ha! Lestrade knew to tread careful when making assumptions, and he already had the inkling that Mycroft was more than a little invested in how certain war efforts across the globe were getting on. So it wasn't off the mark to recognize that even a man of Mycroft's obvious top level subterfuge snaking through the veins of the world had to have a blind spot or two. The facts were plain to Lestrade. Mycroft was lost when it came to navigating the low level muck of emotionally charged poor choices that made up the bulk of criminal behaviour.

It made sense, really, that he was so attuned to the largesse of politics and upheaval in the grand scale he had no real understanding of how the filthy underbelly of London's desperate actually lived. He supposed Sherlock's addiction issues gave him some pause, but even then Sherlock had a habit of picking sanitized versions of crack dens, the street level gang members he came in contact with more pathetic than dangerous and adopted by him like stray cats, given just enough attention and deductive instruction to believe they could be of value. It's a seductive thing, to make someone believe they mattered. The method could be altruistic if it wasn't a wholly selfish ruse for Sherlock to keep a steady, carefully selected homeless network at his beck and call, their loyalty unshakeable. Lestrade didn't have the luxury of picking and choosing amongst the grit and it was he who got the first row view of the ugly bits. Neglected infants forced into care. Half starved teens peddling their skin. The drugs just another symptom and not a cure.

This was why, as he looked at the battered, bloodied form of Nigel Ibenescu, Lestrade couldn't find it in him to hate the man. Nigel had turned his back on heroin peddlers, he'd forged a new life in America and got himself an angel in the process. Rough and prone to impulsive violence, this was just a symptom like it was for many others who had grown up under the yoke of sociopath gang leaders. As an orphan under the rule of communist leader Nicolae Ceaucescu, Nigel had better chances of survival on the streets than in an orphanage. Childhood was not something Nigel Ibenescu was ever able to claim for himself. Violence, that was all he understood. But there was a spark in him, an ambition for a better life that wasn't tainted with suffering and murder and Nigel was fighting with all he had to make himself a better man. Lestrade felt he had to respect that. How Nigel managed to throw his past off was damned inspirational, especially since he had no mentors, no guidelines on how to live entirely differently from what he knew. It was near impossible to find the right path in life when no one was willing to give you a map on how to get there.

But then, Adam Raki was there, and if anyone was good at navigation, it was that guy. The only wise decision Nigel had ever made was to follow him.

"I'm just asking for some names, Nigel. We have this conversation every time we meet. The last time you were in London I put the same beating on you, and we had this exact same scenario play out. Of course you're going to go free at some point, Adam's going to post your bail, just like last time. But I tell you what, Adam can keep his change, as long as you just give me a name. Any name will do. You gave me one last time, and all the charges magically disappeared, remember that? I can make that happen again. I'm your magic man, I am."

But Nigel kept his head down, his mouth a twisted pout. He shook slightly in his seat and bit his thumbnail, his shackled hands gnarled, his knuckles still crusted with blood. His hands were tremulous. He kept giving Mycroft secretive glances through the cage of his blond bangs and quickly averting his eyes when Mycroft's piercing, icy stare found them. This wasn't what Lestrade was expecting and it unsettled him. Usually Nigel was full of fight still, demanding cigarettes and cursing his way through a one way rambling conversation. Nigel liked Lestrade, he'd told him so the last time he'd struck a deal with him. Nigel was no bullshitter. The fact Lestrade proved to be good on his word went a long way with someone of Nigel's black and white mindset.

So it was odd to see him sitting there, cowed and nervous, like a sedated tiger slowly coming to and panicked over its vulnerability. Mycroft shifted in his seat and Nigel actually flinched, "Since you aren't willing to co-operate with Inspector Lestrade, perhaps you will be more forthcoming in your discourse with me. The Inspector wants names from you. I suggest you give him several, as a continued thanks for a mercy I would not have deigned to offer. I, on the other hand, am only interested in one." He waited, watching Nigel's reaction like a hawk about to tear apart a mouse. "Adam Raki."

Nigel growled and snarled like a wild dog and bit the tip of his thumb enough to draw blood. He pressed his chin tight against his chest, his amber eyes daring Mycroft to go ahead and think about leaning closer, he'd topple out of his chair and fucking bite him if it came to it. Lestrade sighed at this, feeling like the fight was over before it had even begun. He cleared his throat to get Mycroft's attention and then nodded towards the door. "I think it's time for a short break. I'll get you a coffee, Nigel. Black, three sugars, right?"

Nigel turned his head away and stared at an empty corner in the room, his jaw chewing on all manner of curses, his throat swallowing some very large chunks of emotion. Lestrade frowned, and followed Mycroft out of the interrogation room and into the observation alcove just beyond it.

"He's not like this. This is way of out of character for him, he's usually playing bravado and being a loud, mouthy prick."

Mycroft looked down his long nose at the image beyond the one way glass, the man who had nearly killed him bound and helpless, yet his words were devoid of emotion. "You're absolutely right. From my own observations I know that this is not a man who cowers in surrender."

"Something's rattling him." Lestrade stepped closer to Mycroft, who didn't back away from the easy contact. "I'm starting to wonder if this theory of yours holds sway after all. Adam Raki is in some sort of trouble, though what kind is set to be the marker, isn't it?"

"I feel I must remind you that I am a man of cold facts and am not easily moved by emotionality." He cleared his throat as Lestrade smiled against the back of his neck, close enough for Mycroft to feel his hot breath against his skin but far enough away to remain tempting.

Mycroft's heart was beating fast. Lestrade could see the jump of his pulse against that smooth, polished throat.

Not easily moved. Right.

"But I do see what you mean, he is jittery, and was especially so when I mentioned Mr. Raki. You already know my theory as to why, foreign spies seeking him out for some highly specialized knowledge, the details of which I cannot divulge."

"You think he's developed a program that can be used for military operations in space." Mycroft's posture stiffened and Lestrade moved beside him, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Come on, don't look at me like that, I actually am a capable investigator, I can connect dots too." Lestrade leaned closer and liked the way Mycroft's shoulders suddenly braced, his head held aloft, as though on high alert. "Just for the record, I completely disagree with you. Adam is getting threatened, but not by some asthmatic Darth Vader with a twisted sense of Zen. These are Nigel's enemies that are going after him. My money's on his old pal Darko, getting wind that he and Adam are in Europe and deciding to make good on old scores to settle. The health of Darko's business hasn't been too well, lately, the Columbians are constantly giving him pressure and the war in Iran is causing lots of problems for the poppy harvests. Adam is an easy target, a way to save face amongst his crew while the ship keeps sinking. It's the kind of short sightedness I've come to expect from Darko."

He pursed his lips and drank Mycroft in, getting a good measure of his graceful, long neck and the cool assessment of his gaze as he continued to observe Nigel through the glass. His skin was ceramic pale, like he'd been living in basements for decades. It gave him the look of a classical art piece, like a sculpted statue from prized soapstone. Every curve and delicate angle agonized over and sanded into an unexpected softness. Must of been quite an inspiration happening when he was made, all that DNA rearranged until a miracle that was as intelligent as Sherlock and yet significantly more conservative was chiselled, brick by molecular brick, into this staid, proud man.

Mycroft cocked his head to one side. "Why have I never heard of this Darko character?"

"Probably because he is a low level cartel druglord, in the grand scheme of things, mostly supplies Eastern Europe and he's small change compared to the big guns. He dabbles in skin trafficking every now and then, but that part of his business has petered off, there's too much competition with the Serbians. I imagine MI6 has much more important things to do than run after bottom feeding, slimy human waste."

Mycroft raised a brow. "I don't know where you get this idea that I am in any way involved with MI6. I am a simple low level member of the British government..."

"Begging your politest pardon, but if you're the nebulous official Himself has referred to once or twice, Sherlock has been quoted as saying that there are times when you *are* the government."

"The flights of fancy of a creative mind."

"One which you've used yourself to great effect, as I recall. There was that whole Moriarity thing." Lestrade shrugged and playfully nodded back and forth. "Vicious criminal monster of tyrannosaurus rex proportions, your brother Sherlock forced to fake his own death, London nearly razed to the ground...No, not the sort of thing MI6 would take an interest in at all."

Mycroft turned on his heel to face him, his expression suddenly sharp. "How does this Nigel fellow fit in with Adam Raki? Why is he so concerned for him?" Mycroft's tall brow knitted into several lines and Lestrade hugged himself, fighting the urge to just reach out and smooth them away with the pad of his thumb. "And how is it that you have such an easy friendship with them both? I find it quite unusual that you are so easy with the criminals in your custody, to the point that you understand when they are feeling genuine distress and you are, dare I say it, empathetic towards them."

"Nigel isn't all bad, though you wouldn't know that, having experienced his more cornered injured animal side. He's hot tempered, he's a romantic, he wears everything he feels right there on the surface of his skin no matter how altruistic or angry he is. He's an asshole and a knight all in one. Which brings me to my final point: Adam Raki is not a threat to anyone, and if he's made a space program that the military wants to use he won't let them have it. He has stricter moral codes than a bloody missionary. He's utterly harmless."

"Your certainty is endearing, but not practical," Mycroft warned him.

Lestrade stepped closer, well into Mycroft's personal space. He chewed his bottom lip, his arms still crossed over his chest as he regarded the slender, poised man before him. "Sometimes it's important to get to know a person."

Mycroft returned his challenge with a small smile that melted a scant millimetre of his ice. "I couldn't agree more." His cell phone rang, a distinctive Beethoven piano concerto that Lestrade couldn't quite place. Mycroft didn't answer it, and gave Lestrade a small, polite smile instead. "I'm afraid I need to be elsewhere at present, but I do hope we cross paths again."

"Maybe for another afternoon?"

"Perhaps."

"We could try talking next time. Might be nice to know who you really are."

"Are you sure you want to?"

"I'm a guy who doesn't back down from a good challenge. We should do dinner." Greg gave him a grimacing grin that was all manner of boyish and he was happy to see that Mycroft wasn't immune to it, not if that faint little blush of pink on the back of his neck meant anything.

"Dinner," Mycroft repeated. "To...Talk. And you feel this discourse would be worthwhile?"

"It's amazing what my mouth can get up to."

With that, Mycroft crooked his head to one side and gave Lestrade a sly smile that held a promise within it. He gave him a polite good-bye and was gone before Greg could offer up anything more as a grasping retort.

Greg sighed and tried to bring his hammering heart back into its normal rhythm. He felt flushed and nervous. He smoothed down his tie, and pretended that Nigel's misery was what held his attention most.

~*~

After Mycroft left, Lestrade took his time getting a couple of coffees, lingering in the main hub of the station before making his way back to the interrogation room. He was momentarily blocked by Inspector Sally Donovan who waved a file in his face. "What's this about?"

Lestrade sighed. "He's going to give us a name, Sally, you know how this works..."

"He nearly ran you down in the middle of the street! He just about smacked into the front of a double decker! He ran cars off the road and fishtailed all over the highway, all while brandishing a gun on a hostage! You're letting this madman take a walk! It's not on!"

"It's not that simple."

Donovan was having none of it and she let him know by crossing her arms and tapping her heel against the ground in short snaps that felt like little stabs inside of Lestrade's skull. "I'll make a complaint," she threatened.

"Go ahead, I've got formal clearance from the Chief Superintendent himself."

"He's in on this too? How about I just stand at the door and give out free passes to the punters, yeah?"

Lestrade's patience was near its end. The fact he made all of Nigel's transgressions disappear every time he ended up in his custody was a sort of game they knew to play. During his visits to London, Nigel would do something stupid, somewhat illegal, usually assault, and then he'd end up at the station, handing over a single name from Darko's upper level cronies and then moving on. Everyone got what they wanted.

This time the game they played had new rules, ones that had pulled Adam onto the board and he was being shoved around like a pawn while Nigel lost his mind as he lost turn after turn. If anyone wanted to break Nigel, using Adam was the prime way to do it, and though there had always been that risk, Darko had mysteriously kept far enough away from that sort of threat to truly consider it. Lestrade figured it was the last gasp of a code of honour between Darko and Nigel. They can kill each other, sure, but the family surrounding them was silently off limits.

Nigel was scared. That unspoken rule had been broken and Lestrade was determined to find out how.

He sipped at his coffee as he walked back down the hall towards the interrogation room, his mood perhaps a lot lighter than it should have been. Mycroft had left for whatever secretive office he holed himself in, and Lestrade couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment he hadn't stuck around to see this through. Not that he was of much use with Nigel, really, in fact he seemed to be hindering the man's usual talkativeness, but...Well...He was rather nice to look at.

All those parts of him. That had been explored. In detail.

He could feel the blush along the back of his own neck as he entered the interrogation room, and he placed the two coffees on the metal table before him before rummaging in his pocket for a set of keys. He unshackled Nigel and gave him a knowing nod. "You'll be free to go soon enough." He fished a cell phone out of his pocket and tossed it alongside Nigel's black coffee. It had a pink cover, dotted with little plastic rhinestones in a spiralling pattern across the rubber surface. "Got any contacts in there that I might find interesting?"

Nigel rubbed his wrists before reaching for the black coffee, his scowl still etched deep on his face. "Antonio Bearinger."

"Scotland Yard thanks you for your co-operation." He flicked off a hidden switch in the table and gave Nigel a pleasant nod as he lifted his own cup of coffee in a salute to him. "We can talk free now. Nothing recording, the cameras are off."

Nigel slumped in relief in his uncomfortable seat and fixed Lestrade with a sneering glare. His thick Romanian accent cut through the otherwise silence of the room. "I can't fucking believe you slept with that cunt strigoi sitting beside you."

Lestrade nearly choked on his coffee. Damn, Nigel! "He's...Look, it's been a highly charged couple of days, mate. Body willing, flesh weak and all that, but I was too bashed up for a proper afternoon delight. No thanks to you."

Nigel chuckled at this. Lestrade took a packet of cigarettes out of his side pocket and tossed them to him, the former gangster grateful for the offering. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with languid ease, sitting back far more comfortably in his chair now, slouching like a lazy feline predator who had just had his fill. "You fucking suck at lying, Greg."

Greg groaned at this. "Look, we snogged. Might have got a little handy on the couch. That's it."

Nigel handed him a cigarette and Greg took it, even going so far as to let Nigel light it for him. "You took him to bed and fucked him until he forgot how to fucking breathe."

Lestrade brought his coffee to his lips, took a nonchalant, cigarette flavoured sip as he pondered what Nigel had said. "And if that's what really happened, what's it to you? None of your business. And he's not a strigoi, you're being an ass. He happens to be a...Well, let's just say he works for the British government and leave it at that. You're the one who nearly killed the man without finding out what he wanted first, he has every right to be a tad judgemental when it comes to you."

Nigel grinned, his cigarette poised in the air beside him, long, slender fingers curled in smoke. "Ah, Greg, even you are so funny when you are in love."

Greg let out a snort of derision at this. "I'm not in love. That doesn't happen so instantly."

Nigel grinned at this, revealing the sharp tips of his uneven canines as he tipped his head back, smoke rising up from his sensuous mouth in sultry streams. "Don't be fucking stupid of course that's how love works. One day you think you have it all fucking together and then, just like that, you see that soul that fucking rocks towards you. Hits you like a goddamned big bang, right in your fucking heart. And you just fucking know. That one. That's the one that's supposed to know you. That's your orbit. That's your satellite. And it all just slips into place, fucking kissing and fucking and their skin and your skin, and their soul and your soul, and suddenly it's all so obvious. All you caught was a glimpse. Just a turn of his head. That's all it took to know. You are in love, Greg. So is he. Stark raving mad with it. Stupid fuckers, the both of you."

Lestrade wanted to argue, to let Nigel know in no uncertain terms that his private trysts were his own damned business. If he'd snogged Mr. Secret Agent Man in the parking lot of his building and then brought him upstairs to his bed, well, that was all just...Biology. Maybe. It was hardly the place or time to be calling all that 'love', for fuck's sake Mycroft was the Iceman. He was Sherlock Holmes's *brother*.

Of course, he wasn't all ice, not when the door to Lestrade's condo slammed shut behind him and Mycroft clutched at his torn coat like he had something against it and kissed him until his mouth ached with bruises, tongue seeking purchase along bloodied teeth. Lestrade had tried to pull away, to pace the moment a little, but Mycroft clearly wasn't having any of that. He tore the wrecked wool coat off of Lestrade, and ripped the last of his tattered cotton shirt from his body, leaving a sleeve and a cuff behind and buttons strewn all over his shag carpet.

"I should probably have a shower," Lestrade had said and Mycroft shook his head, silver eyes wide and shining with near madness.

"Oh no, Gregory. I want you like this. Just like this."

"I'm filthy." He felt grimy and a tad unprepared for the elegant creature draping himself over him. "I'm covered in blood and dirt..."

Mycroft had stopped his protests with firm kisses, tongue stealing words. His lithe body trembled and begged, his hard length grinding against Greg's own fervent interest. "You're glorious." Mycroft's words left him in panting gasps, the button and zip of Lestrade's trousers practically torn apart with shaking fingers. "I need you."

Mycroft certainly let him know how much. On his knees, and with a mouthful.

There weren't many steps after that before they were heading for the bedroom, Mycroft stripping along the way, his weird, old fashioned overabundance of clothes like a form of complex lingerie. By the time Lestrade tossed him onto the softness of his white duvet and took what was so passionately offered, Mycroft was a delicious mess. Every grasp of Lestrade's hands on him had sent him into paroxysms of mewling pleasure, as though Lestrade's flesh seared him and left him aching for more of his hot touch.

The Iceman had melted clean away under the busy hands of Lestrade, leaving a quivering, erotic minx in its stead. He'd driven him over the edge and followed him well over that plummeting cliff, their bodies sticky and hot, covered in sweat and grime and semen. Mycroft, beneath him, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders and refusing to let go. Kisses light and breathless against his ear.

"Oh, Gregory, how did this happen?"

"I'm pretty sure it was when you convinced me not to take a shower."

He felt the very memory of that confession stirring interest deep in his groin, and he shifted in his seat, careening back to the present in an effort to quell it. He still couldn't entirely abandon the events at his condo not a couple of hours ago. They had showered afterwards, separately, Mycroft considerably more abashed and even shy as he sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed as he watched Lestrade get dressed into fresh clothes. "I do hope you don't consider this a moment of weakness," Mycroft said, his chin held high as he regarded Greg's body just a little too long, a flicker of disappointment evident in his silver gaze as Greg slid on a fresh, crisp white shirt.

Greg frowned at the concern. "Why would I think that?"

Mycroft faltered. He was still buttoning up his waistcoat, the last remnants of their lovemaking morphing into the shape of regret. Greg felt a pang of sorrow at this, and he didn't want Mycroft to believe he had been used in any way, that what had happened wasn't something that was perfectly normal between a couple of rather overworked, stressed out and battered human beings. So he did what he could to ease the tension of the moment, by stepping a little closer, his undone tie draped around his neck, the silk tips brushing against Mycroft's shoulders as he bent down and gave him a very gentle, soft, affectionate kiss.

"I didn't get where I am by not having a keen sense of people. I know you think you're made of steel. You're full of too many secrets, and if there's one thing you won't do it's kiss and tell. I don't have an agenda with you, Mycroft. Like I said before, that's not what I'm about. As for our afternoon lunch, well...You were the one who set the pace for that, hardly a second of weakness going on there." Lestrade gave him a sly grin as he looked down on him, strong hands massaging the tension out of Mycroft's neck and liking how the man melted like warmed cream under his touch. "You really are lovely. But that's my secret to keep, I won't be letting that one out."

A plume of smoke hit DCI Lestrade's face and he coughed and brushed it away with his hand. He was back in the interrogation room with Nigel Ibenescu, the ricochet of memories of Mycroft's lips still lingering on the bruises at his mouth. "They're thinking Adam has some kind of secret space weapon thing going on. Has he been building stealth bombs between his mouthfuls of macaroni and cheese?"

Nigel sputtered and choked at this suggestion. "Darling, you are fucking joking."

"I'm afraid I'm not."

"British fucking secret service bullshit is that fucking stupid?"

"Apparently they are, as well as a few others around the globe. I don't know what's going on, I don't think Adam is in any real danger, they're just looking."

"Tell them to look somewhere the fuck else! The only one looking at Adam is me, get it! Fucking bastards!"

"Nigel, relax."

"What is wrong with people? Stupid. Don't they get to know the heart at all? Fucking idiots." He pulled out his cell phone and angrily dialled, all the while keeping his amber gaze unwavering on Lestrade, his mouth a tight pout. He sighed and closed his eyes when the phone was answered, Nigel's entire demeanour melting, changing, purring into the voice on the other end. "My darling...I am so sorry. Yes, I am at the station, and Greg is here. He got me a coffee. Darling, are you all right? I was so worried, I was so scared someone was going to hurt you, I was..."

Nigel choked. He leaned back in his chair, head held up, eyes glassy as he placed his injured knuckles against his bottom lip, the tense quiver of his shoulders betraying the sheer animal power of his emotion. "I can't live without you, Darling. Such terrible thoughts. No, I didn't sleep, of course I couldn't fucking sleep, all I could think of was that fucker Darko making bad on his word and going after you and...All this love, it crushes me, it tears me to shreds. Of course you understand, Darling, only you. It's always only you. Te iubesc, doar inima mea sa te controleze."

Greg sighed, knowing this routine well. Nigel was genuinely sincere, his dramatic proclamations coming from deep inside of himself and pouring with reckless need over Adam's gentle stoicism. The former gangster's hand shook as he continued to smoke his cigarette, tears flowing freely now. Lestrade pushed a box of tissues his way but Nigel loudly sniffed and used the back of his hand.

"Am I hurt badly? Not so much, my darling, just some scrapes and bruises, nothing broken. Yes, you can meet me at the same place, Greg will let me out. Darling...How was the lecture? Ah, what is wrong with those stupid fuckers, it was a good joke!"

Lestrade interrupted the call with a wave of his hand. "Try not to get into trouble," he said to Nigel's tear stained face. "If I get stuck boxing with you again this week I'm not throwing a thing out, do you get me?"

Nigel nodded and Lestrade made his leave, wondering how it was he'd managed to attract madness the way he did. His sister Betty often told him it was because he gave off waves of stability, a person with answers to questions people didn't know they were asking yet. He could be as hot tempered and set on high heat when out in the field, but get him in a room one on one and suddenly Gregory Lestrade was calm and understanding, a strong rock to lean on. It shook out more fruit from solid trees than he wanted sometimes. That little underlay of stable kindness, it attracted every psycho within a quarter mile. He was a pathological problem solver, in his family, at his work and in his failed relationships, always giving the most and receiving shit in return. It was a pattern that was doomed to repeat because he didn't know any other way to relate to others. He couldn't figure how Mycroft now fit into his bad luck yet, but he was sure it would be evident eventually. The way he'd looked up at him, just that tiniest flicker of broken need and Greg's heart was already snagged on it, refusing to just let the afternoon go.

He made his way to his desk to sign the paperwork for Nigel's release and paused at the thick, light grey envelope propped against his computer screen. He picked it up and glanced out the open door of his office to the crowd of busy officers beyond it, and then closed it to read the contents in peace. He tore the envelope open and on a matching grey card in delicate, black script that looked as though it had been written by Dickens himself, was penned: 'Dinner. Harcourt's. 8:00. Come and get to know me.'

So, he wasn't the only one thinking a single afternoon wasn't enough. Greg let out a large puff of breath he didn't know he'd been holding and tried not to think of Nigel's warning that he'd already gone full supernova and hadn't realized it yet. For God's sake, they were strangers to each other. Well, mostly, Mycroft probably did know every facet of him by now, at least the version of himself on paper. Probably wasn't all that different from who he was in real life.

Mycroft Holmes was a man of mystery, or had been until that afternoon and had bared his skin, and now with this note he seemed determined to lift that veil over his soul as well.

And then they wouldn't be strangers. Greg felt his mouth go dry as he tucked the card in the side pocket of his suit jacket, wondering where that kind of open honesty between them might lead.

~*~  
Greg attacked the menu as though it were prime evidence. "I'm starving."

"We never did manage to eat lunch."

"I'd say we satisfied our appetites."

Mycroft chuckled over this as he perused the wine list, making an obvious effort to delay ordering his meal. He motioned the waiter over, pointed to a name on the list and asked for a few additional things in French, one of which Lestrade was sure was 'hammer' though he couldn't figure how that was correct. He watched the waiter leave without taking his order with some consternation. Mycroft drummed his fingers along the fine, spotlessly white starched tablecloth and in the half light of the restaurant his delicate pallor was accentuated. "I am not in the mood to rush things," he said, and smiled.

"Considering we did that already, I'd say we've made a really good show of doing things backwards," Lestrade agreed. "Might be a bit of a wrangle to get things in the right direction."

Mycroft was clearly amused, his gaze still on the menu, but he was smiling. "If we have been going backwards in regards to our association, how do you envision it?"

"Oh, we've been togethers for years and year. Even from before we knew each other's names. We've broken up twice already, never seems to stick, though, we're always coming back for more."

"Has it been a passionate relationship?" Mycroft asked, grinning widely.

"Yeah, a real corker of an East End tearjerker, all pints and sprogs, well they've gone from being grown to just ideas now, seeing as how we're going about this whole thing the wrong way, all backwards and all. We're heading for the first meet and greet, you and I, with the butterflies all in the stomach and the long, lingering looks over bread rolls."

The waiter came back, a selection of bread in a polished wire basket and whipped butter on the side presented to them as though it were the main meal. "Ah, and there it is, right on the past's schedule!"

Their chilled wine arrived, and Mycroft gave the waiter a cool nod, before surrendering a now familiar smile Lestrade's way. The wine was poured and Mycroft took a tasting sip before giving his approval and sending the waiter on his way. It was all so ridiculously formal and not at all Lestrade's style, but he would endure. He picked up his glass and Mycroft offered up his own.

"I propose a toast," Mycroft said.

"Oh? To what?"

"To butterflies and stomachs."

"Yours or mine?"

"Perhaps both. Are you really so nervous to be having dinner with me after our...lunch?"

"I'm getting over it." Lestrade clinked his glass with Mycroft's and took a sip of wine. He hungrily eyed the bread rolls, a rich collection of cracked wheat and multigrain offerings that would have made his sister Jeanette proud, save for the fact it still had gluten. She had a penchant for eating sawdust. He gestured at them. "You gonna eat one?"

Mycroft gave the offering a shake of his head. "I'm watching my carbs."

"You're on a bloody diet? You?"

"I spend an inordinate amount of time behind a desk. One's inactivity can make a person rather round, especially around the middle."

Annoyed, Lestrade picked up a bread roll, tore it open and then gave it to Mycroft, slathered in butter. "It's your bloody brother, isn't it? You don't have to answer, I know how he likes to think he can get into people's heads and mess about under their skin. I got three sisters, as you know, and they are all different levels of horror. Sherlock's got nothing. The second eldest, Jeanette, my God, she's always on about no carbs this and quinoa that and we're all going to hell if we don't start eating fried kale. Just for the record, I ate bacon this morning and the world didn't disintegrate. She eats salads all damned day and wonders why she's always feeling disappointed. Eat the damned roll."

Chuckling, Mycroft accepted the offering. "Neither Sherlock nor John mentioned that you have such a sharp sense of humour. I find your candour refreshing."

"That's a very nice way of putting that I can be a smartass. Thank you."

Mycroft took another sip of wine as he regarded the large bite he'd taken out of the bread roll. "And Sherlock never mentioned me?"

"Not once. I think he has this need for people to think he just sprouted out of thin air, adds to that whole bloody magic mystique. I just care about the results, and Lord knows he's good at that. Best to step out of the way and let him sparkle, there's no point distracting him with the finer nags of his deductions, those are the things I take care of later. Little things, like corroborating witnesses and evidence that can actually stand solid in court."

He noticed that Mycroft was fiddling with the bread roll now, his brow furrowed in a deep frown, though more pensive this time, as though he'd just found a dusty missing piece of a puzzle that had been sitting under a couch for ages, and the picture it belonged to was long gone. He looked up at Greg, catching his own dark gaze momentarily and Greg held his breath, finding that familiar tiny shard of vulnerability that had tugged at him like a barbed hook and tore itself away with the smallest of scratches left behind. It smarted, though, Greg knew that. Secrets that were personal and not belonging to the realm of Service but buried deep under thick layers of ice.

Greg made a good living drilling through those sorts of barriers on a daily basis, and it seemed Mycroft wasn't immune. He'd managed to touch a tender spot, here, and as was his damned selfless habit he instinctively wanted to heal it.

"You were fully aware the Jack The Ripper confessional was faked," Mycroft stated, his mouth a thin line. "A dusty skeleton dressed in period costume at an antique desk, hidden away in a wall complete with cobwebs and a notebook proclaiming 'How I Did It', all transparently theatrical. Yet you called Sherlock in to investigate it anyway. You did it to distract him from a more sensitive case you were working on and to make Sherlock feel both superior and included in your work. Practical and...Kind."

Greg shrugged. "He'd just come back from the dead. He needed a segue in and an understanding that all was to return to regular programming. If making me look like an idiot helped him get back into the trenches, I'm comfortable with that."

"Gregory, you are proving to be quite unexpectedly extraordinary. I am starting to suspect you are made of magic yourself."

"I don't know about that. Never did get that invite to Hogwarts."

Mycroft's mirth at this was genuine, and Greg found he liked the way his face secretively lit up when genuine feeling snuck through, just a fleeting glimpse and pulse beneath his skin but it was enough to cause a blush along the back of his neck, one that bloomed just beneath his ears. The high collar of his shirt and the muted light of Harcourt's almost hid it, but Greg was hyper vigilant in his observation. What he really wanted to do was simply move his chair close and give Mycroft a hungry kiss that would make that blush rise right up into his pale cheeks and make those steely eyes of his flutter in erotic expectation. But then, they'd already gone that route, at bloody rocket speed as he recalled. It was time to head backwards. Time to talk.

Mycroft glanced over Greg's shoulder and acknowledged the elderly waiter approaching their table. "Ah yes. Detective Inspector Lestrade, may I please have your cell phone for a moment?"

Suddenly confused, Greg reached into his inside jacket pocket and handed it over to him. His confusion quickly morphed into alarm when the elderly waiter presented Mycroft with a hammer resting on a silver platter. To his utter shock and horror he watched, helpless, as Mycroft thanked the waiter, took up the hammer and, very neatly and with two solid strokes that reduced it to mangled shards, smashed DCI Lestrade's cell phone to bits.

Greg opened his mouth to ask just what the bloody hell only to close it again as Mycroft presented him with an identical phone. The waiter took the remnants of his electronic life away and Greg took the new phone from Mycroft with wide-eyed confusion.

"I can't just give you my number," Mycroft explained. "Don't worry, it contains all of your contacts and apps, though why you would insist on 'Dumb Ways To Die 2' is beyond my understanding, I'm afraid. And I don't understand your music files, what is Two-Tone? This phone has an additional chip in it ensuring secure encryption. Communication with me is set to be perfectly secure."

Greg stared at the cell phone, now shiny and new and free of the usual dents. "Ah," was he could think to say. He chewed his bottom lip in thought. "So...This is so you can call me. Safely."

"Yes."

"So, I can also assume you are planning on calling me. In future."

"I was under the impression that would be acceptable."

"Oh it is. I'm destined to abuse the privilege, just warning you. It's just, I'm more used to stained scraps of paper and not being able to make out the last digit."

"Are you in the habit of getting stranger's phone numbers?"

"Not usually, no. Not really in the habit of getting a Bond phone, neither. Will this double as a taser if need be?"

"Of course not."

"Pity, that."

He pocketed the phone and then returned to his hunger, squinting at the menu, barely able to read the near illegible print. Anything to distract his own thoughts over the fact that Mycroft really did want to get to know him, enough to commission a specialized secure cell phone that must have taken some trouble to be put together. He was sure Mycroft had never let on as to why. Perhaps there were plenty of excuses, things like 'I have to have a private conversation with the Shah of Arabia concerning the export of nuclear armaments to Bristol'. That's the sort of clearance Mycroft Holmes was giving to him, to DCI Greg Lestrade. He couldn't help but feel a puff of pride at this as he sat up straighter in his seat.

But damn. 'What is Two-Tone?' When it came to some things, Mycroft really did live under a rock.

The menu's tiny print and the poor lighting in the restaurant gave him the beginnings of a headache. He set the menu aside. "What's good to eat here?"

Mycroft took an overly large mouthful of bread. He was damned hungry too, Lestrade observed. He watched, carefully, as Mycroft cleansed his palate with another long sip of wine. "How did Adam Raki and Nigel Ibenescu become so close?" he asked.

Lestrade shrugged. Maybe he could just order chicken and see what that brought him. This place looked fancy enough for any silly thing on the menu to end up being better than the usual grease soaked street fare he slopped his gut up with. "How does anybody meet anyone? They met, they clicked. I imagine it was a hell of a whirlwind, Nigel isn't the sort to sit back and wait, especially not when the heart is involved."

"And you believe Adam has it?"

Lestrade paused as he reached for a dinner roll, he was going to pass out if he didn't eat the whole damned basket at this rate. "Adam has what?"

Mycroft stared at the crumbs on his empty plate. "His heart."

"He most certainly does," Lestrade said, watching Mycroft's reaction very carefully. "But here, I thought this dinner wasn't about shop talk. I'm supposed to be getting to know you."

"And thus you are. I am a man dedicated to his work."

"All work and no play."

"I believe you rectified that problem this afternoon."

Harcourt's was not a busy restaurant, its interior draped in white linens and gauzy silk curtains, golden candles in sparkling, equally gold tealights that gave the large space the glow of a hearth. It also had remarkably tardy service, because their assigned waiter was at the other end of the restaurant, chatting away with the busty coat check girl, hands constantly fixing his hair in a subconscious wish to be sliding it through her long, chestnut brown softness.

"I dare say, where is our waiter to take our order?" Mycroft muttered, taking up the menu at last. "The chicken is quite good," he offered.

Lestrade watched the way the warm glow of the place reflected off of Mycroft's pale skin, his quiet, careful study of the menu, which Lestrade knew he had memorized, the small creep of a blush still lurking along the back of his neck. Lestrade grinned. He downed his glass of wine in one gulp, and got up from his chair.

"Come on."

Mycroft looked up from the menu, surprised. "I'm sorry...?"

"I can't get to know you here. Too many rules. Too many formalities to hide behind." Lestrade gave Mycroft's suddenly shocked expression a fleeting kiss on his partially opened lips. "I know one place where you can be yourself, no fear of repercussions..."

"Gregory..."

"It's a lot more comfortable too. And a similar ambiance."

"I thought we were going backwards."

Lestrade fought the urge to pull out Mycroft's chair and force him to standing, but the man was confusedly following him to the front of the restaurant, a ready excuse for the maitre 'd on his lips, one that Lestrade quickly waved away as he said, in perfect French to the huddled couple at the coat check, "Vive les amateurs et longue vivent la nuit! Come on, get your coat. You want me to know you but this place will only give me the polite version of you. That ain't gonna wash with me, mate. You're a man of practical perception, so I've been told. Ought to put that into practise."

The night air had a bite as they walked out of Harcourt's and into the gentle nudge of a winter evening, Lestrade's Mercedes dusted with a light covering of snow.

"And how shall I do that?" Mycroft asked, and yes, he did blush right up to his cheeks when Greg placed a warm hand on the small of his back and ushered him towards his car.

"You've got things you want to tell me. Wrong venue here for that." He wrapped his arm around Mycroft's waist and pulled him in close, stealing a kiss that made Mycroft squeak in surprise, only to melt in an instant beneath Lestrade's steady grip. His eyes were closed when Greg released him. A small kiss, really. Less than a second long, and it left the stiff, formal man in his arms liquid and swooning.

"In my opinion, there's no better confessional in the world than the one across two pillows."

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a week, has it?
> 
> Going a little fast?
> 
> A meeting with Nigel and Adam creates chaos and Lestrade seems to have found the key to Mycroft's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a LOT of fun with this chapter! I hope you like it!
> 
> Nigel's swearing is quite something, so warnings for that. Sherlock, you really are a dick.

IT'S THE SIMPLE THINGS  
chapter five

Mycroft lay on his back and stared at the ceiling in Lestrade's bedroom, his soft white duvet wrapped around him, the smell of fresh coffee wafting in from the open door that gave a view of the living room and a small portion of the kitchen. He supposed the perturbing thoughts that kept rolling around in his head were due to the expense of adrenaline and the ever erotic hum that waking like this every morning had been giving him. He closed his eyes, knowing full well without seeing him that Greg was busy in the kitchen, silver hair tousled, a fluffy white bathrobe in great contrast to his darker skin, the bathrobe loose and half open, revealing little red circles on his chest that were already descending into a purple hue. Mycroft placed his palm over his face, the scent of Gregory's sex still evident there. He breathed it in as the parchment paper within his mind unfurled and, without asking if Mycroft wanted to do this or not, his damnable internal fountain pen began writing on it in elegant, perfect script:

_Fact 1: You have been sleeping with DCI Gregory Lestrade for the past week. Every night, shagging for hours until every bone in your body aches, and you're sure the feeling is likewise. He doesn't seem upset with you for imposing like this, but you really are a fast worker, Mycroft, can't you tone it down for at *least* forty-eight hours? No hard to get with you, it seems._

_Fact 2: You've spent every night this week in Lestrade's bed, letting him have his wild way with you, and instead of simply enjoying the afterglow all you can do afterwards is catalogue every feeling, nuance, word and sensation into your inner filing system where the drawers open up at the most inopportune moments. You had a gasping episode in front of the Prime Minister yesterday afternoon, he thought you were having an asthma attack. Ample proof that your library of memory should not be used as a porn site._

_Fact 3: He's coming into the room now, and he's got two mugs of coffee, one in a dark blue mug (that one's yours)and a white mug with a picture of a bobby's hat inked on it. A gift from someone, probably one of his sisters. Not a past lover, of course, as you know he has a terrible relationship history (Look at you, on that list!) and past mistakes always took everything and more when they left._

_The coffee is going to be perfect, made in the exact way you like it, and he's handing it to you and you are sitting up and warming your hands with it, and dammit, you aren't going to stop sleeping with him and acting like some besotted chav with hoop earrings and black eye shadow, are you?_

"'Ta," Mycroft said, his inner parchment list rolling up and smacking his psyche hard enough to make him wince. He took a sip of the hot coffee and closed his eyes in bliss. It was perfection. He curled his knees up to his chest and balanced the mug on his knees as Gregory slid up beside him, white bathrobe at dangerous risk of slipping wide open. _Gregory_. A glorious name for such a fascinating, handsome man, meant to be uttered in reverence and along the soft incline of a kiss. Like the one he earned now.

"After all very naughty the things we've done in this bed for the past few days, it right boggles me how you're still inclined to blush when I lay beside you on top of the covers. You're not a fellow who knows how to properly relax, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled over the rim of his coffee as he felt Gregory shift closer, the heat from his body intoxicating. "Occupational hazard," he explained.

Lestrade gently placed his coffee onto a small end table at his side of the bed, and plucked the fresh coffee from Mycroft's hand to join it. Easing down his bent knees, he rolled on top of him over the covers, the weight of his strong body comforting, the tease of sex a promise for later. He stole coffee tinged kisses, a delectable breakfast that Mycroft was eager to indulge.

There was a strange feeling rising in his chest and if Mycroft wasn't perfectly aware he had no business knowing it, he'd swear the sensation was what one would experience if they were, God forbid, happy.

He sighed and practically purred into the way Gregory buried his face in the crook of his neck, morning stubble rasping his sensitive skin, searching kisses travelling along his throat to find their destination at his partially open lips. He was eager to let Gregory dip inside, to taste him, devour him if he must.

One cell phone rang, and then another, and Gregory huffed into Mycroft's neck before groaning and leaving him with obvious reluctance, sliding off the side of the bed and plucking the cell from discarded trousers near his bedroom door. "Lestrade," he growled into it. He ran his hand through his already messy silver spikes and rubbed them into further tangles. His shoulders braced at the news and he frowned over what the female voice on the other end was saying. "He called it in himself, got a pic of the bastard? It doesn't matter how blurry it is, at least it's something. He sent one to me, too? Nah, I'll be late getting in today, got some leads I'm following up on but don't really want to make official as of yet. Wish I'd caught that text sooner. If Nigel calls again, you alert me immediately, got it, Donovan?" He stretched, his back creaking as he grimaced into the pain of it. "Why didn't the son of a bitch just call me, like he usually does? What do you mean he tried?" Lestrade held out his phone out and began scrolling back through his alerts. "Well, I'm not hardly going to be answering my phone at three in the zero morning, am I, I do sleep sometimes!" Lestrade sighed in impatience. "You already know he has a potty mouth, Donovan, it's not my fault if he can curse you under a table, in case you didn't notice most criminals don't have the greatest social graces. Later."

Lestrade tossed the cell on the corner of the bed. Mycroft scrolled through his own alerts, noting that Sherlock had called six times in the last half hour. "My brother may have a new development," Mycroft warned Lestrade.

Lestrade chewed his bottom lip at this. "How many times has he called?"

"Six."

"We'd better get moving, then."

Mycroft picked up his coffee once again, content to watch Gregory get ready, his grey suit plucked from his closet, one of many near identical such uniforms he owned, along with a standard white shirt and dark navy tie, which would be discarded before the day was out. He was not a man of vain pursuits, save for his toiletries and Mycroft had a suspicion that the quality cologne he sported was to keep the stench of ill will at the New Scotland Yard at bay.

The shower turned on, and Gregory washed the evidence of their lovemaking off, a habit Mycroft would likewise do when he was finished. They could lightly touch and kiss afterwards, but Mycroft was well aware of his brother's perceptive abilities, he possessed them himself in abundance, and he wasn't about to be found out simply because Gregory's cologne or choice of toothpaste uncharacteristically lingered around him. So, he was set to be content with remaining in what had quickly become a mutual bed, sipping his coffee and contemplating on how this had become so very, very right in how wrong it was.

DCI Gregory Lestrade's flat had, quickly, become a place of refuge for Mycroft, a hideaway he hadn't realized he'd needed. It was a pleasant condo on a tree lined suburban street, not far from the highway and at the periphery of London's outskirts. Sunlight streamed in from large, tinted windows that erased the need for curtains, and Gregory's decor was of the simple and functional variety, a comfortable couch from Ikea in his living room, a flat screen TV that didn't dwarf the space, a couple of comfortable overstuffed chairs that had seen better days and a chrome and glass coffee table that had all the scuff marks of a hand me down. The kitchen was a likewise simple collection of thin Corningware and haphazard gadgets obtained as Christmas gifts, useless items like a hand crank coffee grinder (he used an electric one) and an Olster breadmaker (there was no flour in his cupboards, in fact there was an inordinate amount of coffee beans, tea bags of every herbal variety known to man and a lone bag of ancient couscous he'd probably forgotten about. A colony of weevils had made a home in it.). Gregory never ate in. His tiny refrigerator held bottles of wine and a syrupy concoction he'd explained was Romanian palinka, pawned off on him by Nigel Ibenescu whenever he was picked up after getting into trouble in London, and Gregory didn't have the heart to tell the former gangster he couldn't stomach the stuff.

This was the greatest hint to Gregory's personality, more than anything Mycroft had read in his files or had gleaned in banter across his pillow, and though he was clearly taking a certain mutual advantage of it, it still sat ill with him. Gregory was a man who appreciated kindnesses, and kept the unwanted gifts as reminders of the people who had, in their hapless way, done what they could to reciprocate what he gave them. Items not mired in sentiment so much as a respect for the effort. Yet another aspect of his care, and one the gift givers would never be aware of.

Dr. John Watson was right, this was a very, very good man and Mycroft Holmes did not deserve him.

He set his coffee down when Gregory stepped out of the shower, his skin steaming, wafts of flowery scented soap leaving him. Mycroft ached to be held, but he kept his hands to himself, remaining content to drink Gregory's healthy, freshly scrubbed aroma in. "I desperately want to kiss you," he lamented.

"Afraid not, we're set to visit Himself within the hour. Bad enough we're going to be in the same room, so no longing looks and we'll try and keep our contact casual, yeah? We are taking a real risk, he's set to figure out something."

"Let me worry about Sherlock," Mycroft assured him. He felt his gaze flutter at the vision of Gregory standing in front of him with a bath towel wrapped loose around his waist, the curling lines of a complex tattoo of a colourful Japanese inspired wave winding up from his lower buttock across his hip and upwards, a lick of dark ink ending at his pec. Mycroft swallowed, longing to be drowned yet again in the man's skin.

"We can't be a secret forever," Lestrade warned him, giving him a cheeky grin. "I want to have bragging rights at some point."

"What proclamation would that be?"

"Conquest of a Holmes."

"Is that what this is?" Mycroft frowned. "I hardly put up a fight. If anything, I'm a little alarmed at how quickly you have become indispensable to me, it all smacks of a certain unfathomable recklessness."

"I know." Gregory let the towel fall as he went to get dressed, still grinning at Mycroft. "Fantastic, isn't it?"

~*~  
Mycroft rapped sharp knuckles on his brother's door, the knocker above his fist pulled to one side. He placed it back in alignment and smacked it loudly, the sounds of Mrs. Hudson's hurried steps and her impatient "I'm coming, hold on, don't knock the bloody door down!" drifted through the black lacquered wood. DCI Lestrade stood behind him, and Mycroft fought to keep his ice at the forefront of the meeting he was set to have with his brother, sensitive developments that Lestrade had discovered ready to be discussed first. The door opened and Mycroft gave Mrs. Hudson's fussing a thin smile as he headed inside, leaving Gregory to deal with the bulk of her chatter, much of which involved "Could you be a dear and tell Mr. Holmes that the rats infesting the basement storage room are vermin, not pets as he keeps calling them, and feeding them my good biscuits only increases their number?"

The flat had the usual odour that accompanied stoic bachelorhood, a malaise that Mycroft had been happy to note was no longer evident in Lestrade's condo. They were such a study in contrasts, the good Inspector and his messy brother, who filled his life to bursting with assorted thrift store baubles and furniture fished out of a neighbour's tip. Mrs. Hudson did her best, but the place was a festering nest of Sherlock's rambling interests, music sheets strewn about the floor along with news periodicals about his exploits, stacks of statistics on a side table, dusty books opened and stacked until their spines gave in a jigsaw that forever threatened to topple. He chose Sherlock's favoured leather chair on purpose, pushing past his brother's scowl and not offering a greeting nor an invitation to enter the room. DCI Lestrade stood in the doorway, still being relentlessly nattered at by Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock, still in his striped pyjamas and open purple robe, a tired Dr. John Watson reading the newspaper in the dusty chair at his side, pointed his violin bow in furious accusation at his brother and exclaimed, "You've been having SEX!"

Mrs. Hudson put her hand to her mouth and gave Mycroft a wide-eyed look before muttering, "Oh dear, oh dear," and toddling off to safety and proper eavesdropping back in her flat on the main floor. She'd left a stunned DCI Lestrade in her wake, who looked at Mycroft with wide, brown eyes that held every measure of guilt within them. Thankfully, Sherlock's back was turned to him, and Mycroft's ice was firmly in place, his head held high as he braced his hand on the curved question mark of his umbrella. "Is that why you have summoned me here? To slut shame me?"

"You don't deny it, then," Sherlock said, narrowing his gaze on his older brother, seeking out weak spots to jab his little barbed knives.

"I neither deny nor confirm since it is none of your business."

"Your skin doesn't look as sallow, you've been put in sunlight, streaming in from a large window, tainted glass, but not enough to filter out too many of those much needed UV rays or vitamin D. You have small abrasion marks on your neck, no doubt from a man's rough whiskers, and what a man he must be to leave your icy finish so shattered. The lines around your eyes are all softened and mired in the sudden memory of carnal lust that permeates your every pore..."

"Sherlock, it's really none of your business," John said to him, and sighed into the newspaper he was still reading. He cast a quick glance at Mycroft. "Even I knew you were gay. That's hardly a deduction he's making."

"Yes, he's become quite the spar partner," Sherlock said, skulking around Mycroft's chair like a predator cat set to poise upon an injured mouse. Mycroft's lips were pressed hard in a tight line, his ice momentarily cracked. "I believe it's getting a bit serious, John. I think my dear brother is cohabiting with someone, enjoying those benefits for their full effect. Mycroft has never been the sportsman type, and yet I suspect he's taken up fencing. Sword fights every night, am I right big brother? Well, well, you should be quite the champion by now!"

"Give over, that's enough!" DCI Lestrade suddenly exclaimed. He crossed his arms and stood between Sherlock and Mycroft as though ready to come to blows if need be, and Mycroft shrank in his seat. This was not good. Oh dear, this was not good at all. "I'm here on loan, I have things to do in case you were wondering, so out with what's so important and why we're here!"

Sherlock stared at DCI Gregory Lestrade, his head cocked to one side as he looked from him to his brother, and Mycroft's heart sank. He knew at that moment all was lost. "It's you. Traitor! You're sleeping with my brother!"

"I..."

"Don't bother denying it!"

"Sherlock, really, DCI Lestrade?" John shook his head as he folded his newspaper. "And how in the devil do you figure that?"

Sherlock didn't waver, his gaze still penetrating DCI Lestrade's challenge with a poised predator barb ready to do it's full damage.

Sherlock turned his head away, his voice suddenly harmless and light. "I broke into George's condo last night to check his cell phone to see if Nigel Ibenescu had called him and sent him that picture he'd taken. Had to put it on mute, Nigel kept calling. Persistent fellow. The cell phone was, of course, in the bedroom on the nightstand, they always are. It couldn't be avoided, and believe me I would have preferred not seeing Mycroft and Lestrade draped over each other al fresco in bed together. No naughty bits poking out, thankfully, and the pose was sickeningly sweet, really. Is there any tea left? Damn the pot is empty, what use is Mrs. Hudson if she only fills the damned thing halfway! Ugh, another selection of those ghastly biscuits. More treats for Willard and Ben."

But Gregory wasn't about to let this intrusion on his privacy go, and Mycroft found himself blocked out by his lover's and Sherlock's continuing quarrel.

Pen scraped parchment in his mind, a single item on the list: ' _Point 1--You just called DCI Gregory Lestrade your 'lover'...'_

Mycroft shook his head, the parchment crumpling into a tiny, tight ball. _Shut up!_

"My name is GREG!" Lestrade stood threateningly close to Sherlock, his jaw set as he readied for a real fight. "You broke into my condo to look at my cell phone? What the hell is wrong with you?" Gregory's face was livid red, his hands clasping and unclasping in working fists.

"I should ask you the same. You know, it would be terribly easy to murder you in your sleep. I could have just popped a bullet into your head with your own revolver tucked in that locked drawer in the kitchen, and then asphyxiated my stunned brother with one of your exceptionally fluffy overstuffed pillows. I've discussed this exact scenario with John several times, for men so hell bent on the security of others you possess a real lack of it for yourselves."

Lestrade was pale. He looked to John for answers. "Is this true?"

John yawned and sipped at his tepid tea. "He's figured out how to murder me too, in various ways. Yours and Mycroft's demises are at least consistent."

Lestrade shook a furious finger in Sherlock's impassive face. "I'm getting a bloody deadbolt!"

"If you want to believe that will help, feel free. Right now there are far more important things to do, like visit Adam Raki and Nigel Ibenescu at their neat little flat. Since both the British government and Scotland Yard have proved inept in their surveillance I have taken it upon myself to ensure their safety, and a good thing too. Our odd couple seem to have acquired a stalker, and it isn't one I recognize."

Still angry, Lestrade took out his cell phone. "Nigel sent this to me while I was sleeping, and he was so upset he forwarded it to Donovan when I didn't answer. You mean this guy?" He held up a blurry image of a thickset man with a neck as wide as his head, equally massive shoulders looking like they were sprouting a thumb between them.

Sherlock nodded. "I couldn't get a good shot of him myself, he kept himself in shadow and I couldn't risk the flash. Your insane Romanian gangster has no such safeguards, of course. He took several photos as the suspect took off. I think it's best we visit them at their flat and see if he caught their potential murderer's good side." He gave his brother and Lestrade a sneaky, judgemental glance. "At least someone knows how to be vigilant."

~*~  
To say the ride in Lestrade's Mercedes was filled with tension was like saying a serial killer had some issues with self control. Mycroft seethed at the way Sherlock kept boring into the back of his head with his unwanted, poking scrutiny, feasting on his elder brother's discomfort and grinning like a madman over it. Bastard.

Sadly, it was Dr. John Watson who made everything worse. "So, the two of you are together?" He coughed into a nervous fist. "As in, living together, as a couple?"

"Not really," Mycroft said, and gave Lestrade a quick side glance. "We've been seeing each other just this past week."

"Sleeping together," Sherlock clarified.

"Dating," Lestrade tersely added through clenched teeth.

"In the stark raving nude," Sherlock added. "Every night this week. Coming and going at all hours, open door policy and no deadbolts barring, at least not yet...Really, Gordon, you should have come to me first if this was your inclination. For whatever reason you are enamoured with my ice queen of a brother, I'm sure there's medical intervention out there that can help you. You are an attractive enough fellow with just enough bland personality to attract any number of equally dull rides. At the risk of being cliche, I must insist, you can do better."

Mycroft shot his brother a glare, but it was Lestrade's dark intonations that cut into Sherlock's harsh words with no room for compromise. "You're going to clamp it shut now," Lestrade said, in tones that were usually used on the most dangerous criminal suspects and were rumoured to bring even a Mafioso don a nag of worry. "One more word and you're going to find yourself on the wrong end of a search cavity and it will be Brunhild in vice division who I'll be calling on for the favour."

Sherlock petulantly clamped his mouth shut and sulked in the back seat, his arms crossed over his chest. He kicked the back of Mycroft's chair with his heel in a childish display of pique, one that was cured by yet another harsh glare from Lestrade through the rear view mirror.

The car wasn't silent for long. As they passed through busy streets and narrowly avoided aggressive bus drivers and black taxis, John suddenly said, "So, you've been seeing each other just a week, then?"

Mycroft went to answer, but it was Lestrade who had full control on this issue, much to his relief.

"Yes," Lestrade said, his voice tight. "An entire week. Every night. Like rabbits."

"I don't mean to pry, I just...Well, it almost sounds like you're living together already."

"You moved in with Himself fast enough," Lestrade challenged.

"I wasn't sleeping with him, and I had my own room, and...I was forced into the situation."

Sherlock gave him a disgusted face. "Forced?? Oh give up, John, you were damned happy to be there! The adrenaline, the rush, the bloody Work! You planted your feet on your own fair and square, the nerve of you denying it!"

"You didn't exactly give me a choice, you insisted."

"I'm hurt, John. Deeply hurt. Besides, what was the point of waiting when it was inevitable you were going to do so anyway? It's not like you wanted to go back to that miserable little let you holed yourself in. I'm shattered you ever conceived a doubt!"

He wasn't, but Sherlock made a good show of it. The facts were it seemed these sorts of instant arrangements were part and parcel of the Holmes mindset, and Mycroft was exhibiting classic symptoms of needful attachment. He hadn't recognized it in his brother, but it was staring at him clearly now, especially in regards to the conversation he'd had with Gregory just the night before.

They had ordered food in. Mycroft had arrived at six in the evening, bearing his laptop and keen to do work as he sat in one of Gregory's patched, comfortable chairs, a leftover from his college days when he'd studied psychology before taking a sharp turn not long after graduation and pursuing a career in law enforcement. He sipped at the chilled merlot offered to him and went through his files, boxes checked and treaties carefully worded in order to prevent any possible coups on the Turkish border. Hidden factions of radicals had seeped into the woodwork and were making noise, and it was Mycroft's careful eye on the drafted treaties that found all the little holes they were doing all they could to slip through and enforce harsh, dogma driven policies.

Gregory was sprawled across his couch, staring morosely at images of murdered heroin dealers in the Hackney area along with bios and a family tree of criminal connections spread out on the surface of his coffee table. He rubbed at his tired face and growled at his efforts, his tie undone, his jacket discarded, the sleeves of his white shirt, of which he had an identical dozen, starched, ironed and ready in his bedroom closet, was rolled up to his elbows.

"I bet you have a big desk at your flat to do this sort of bloody business from. I used to use the kitchen table, but that's where I eat and I can't put photographs like this on there, turns my appetite right off."

"I have a large desk at my office, yes, but that's about it," Mycroft said, and lifted the opened laptop from its position at his crossed legs within the chair, a yoga pose if ever there was one. "This is why my life is predominantly electronic these days. Much easier to manage when it's not in pieces that can be blown off of a table with a gentle breeze and lost under a bookcase."

"Unless you want that happen," Gregory shrewdly observed.

"Yes. Quite."

He'd thought that was the end of it, but Gregory was strangely pensive, hints of worry edging its way through that Mycroft didn't understand. "So...You don't want to go to your flat?"

Mycroft blinked at this, and then took a deep intake of breath, suddenly understanding. "Oh, you want me to leave! I'm so sorry, Gregory, if my being here is too much of a distraction and you need to work..."

"No, it's not that, nothing like that, and I don't want you to go. Please, sit down, stay."

He had, with some consternation, his easy posture in the chair now far more stiff and formal than before. Mycroft closed his laptop, sensing there was far more to this conversation, a fact that was proved by what Gregory said next.

"You don't want me in your flat. I get it, you think I'm gonna find something, or there's all kinds of classified this or that in there and..."

"No, Gregory, not at all, that's not it."

Gregory had sighed, suddenly saddened by this. "Look, I get it, whatever this is, I really like it, I don't want to muck it up, but I just...I find it really kind of odd and even a little hurtful that you don't want me to see your flat. I mean, you got me at a disadvantage here, you get to see me on my own turf where I don't think anyone's looking and I don't get to see you in your natural habitat. It's a bit of an uneven reveal, don't you think?" Gregory smoothed his palms down his trousers and rose from the couch in a display of irked bravado that followed him into the kitchen as he raided his cupboards to refill his now empty glass of wine, only to rethink it and aim for coffee instead. A motion that Mycroft instantly interpreted as Serious Talk Coming Up.

"I know we've only been seeing each other a week," Gregory said, the sharp angle of the kitchen mostly hiding him, the little window in the middle giving glimpses of his disappointment. "But I kind of figured you'd trust me a bit more than this."

Mycroft felt his heart sink, his breath caught as Gregory re-entered the living room, hands on hips as he glanced down at Mycroft's seated form with a sense of helpless inevitability. "I mean, I know I'm not a posh bloke, and I don't have the right sort of ways about me that most people you associate with do, and maybe you're concerned the people around you..."

"The people around me would best treat you with the utmost of respect and decorum on par with the etiquette of kings," Mycroft sharply replied, the bite enough to give Gregory pause. "There is no one in the world who I consider my 'people', Gregory. No one, save you."

He centred himself and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before crossing his legs and re-opening his laptop, getting back to the previous two paragraphs he had just been reading. He was too distracted to continue, Gregory's unanswered questions too intrusive to leave in mystery. "I don't have a flat. Or a house, or a condominium. I'm forever on flights and in meetings at all hours and have to leave at a moment's notice. If I'm in London for any extended period of time I have a rollaway in my office and the occasional rented room at The Diogenes Club. Otherwise, it's hotels of varying quality and all of equal impersonal chill."

Gregory frowned at this, his mouth half open in shock. "You live out of your office and scrappy hotels? But Sherlock said..."

"Sherlock is wrong. I bought the flat for my assistant Anthea and I have never been in it."

Gregory chewed the inside of his cheek as he stood there in the entranceway of his small galley kitchen, hands on hips as he gave the information a careful once over in his always suspicious but thoughtful mind. "What you're telling me, Mycroft, is that you're bloody homeless."

"I wouldn't go that far..."

"You got no root nowhere, no place to just drop in and be welcome. That's the definition of bloody homeless, Mycroft, and what kind of rotten piece of work would I be if you start going to grubby hotels instead of staying here when you've got your feet planted in the mother country?" He dove into his pocket and fished out a thick clump of keys, picking through them one by one.

Mycroft felt his mouth go dry. "Gregory, what are you doing?"

"What the bloody hell do you think I'm doing, I'm giving you a place to live, you mad thing." He handed an extra key to his condo to Mycroft who eyed the significance of the gesture with all the austerity of being handed Excalibur.

Well it's all very rote, isn' t it? Yes, overly dramatic, cue orchestra sounds and a roaring fire and a naked tumble onto a sheepskin rug. His mental parchment's sepia video screen was ruthless. All very typically romantic and overblown and truly he fought the dreaded, horrific sentiment with all he had. But despite his most concentrated efforts his eyes had watered, the barest, thinnest veil of a sheen, and Gregory had given him a little 'Aww' at the sight and he had taken Mycroft to bed and done absolutely wicked things to him for the duration of that evening, Turkey and its problems be damned. At least until the morning.

John, of course, had to mar the memory with his little needles sewing in doubt.

"Moving at bit fast though, isn't it?"

"Tell me something, John," Sherlock impatiently implored him, "Should you find yourself in a supermarket--as I know you enjoy that tedium very well, it's a miracle when you manage to get a head of lettuce--and you happen to alight on a package of tea that you are familiar with, and know about, and have known about for years, and have considered trying, but never did, and then you buy said tea packets and then decide 'By God! My life has been altered by this miraculous tea!', should you then hesitate the next time you go the supermarket in buying it?"

"We're talking about people and relationships, Sherlock, packets of tea are hardly a comparison," John admonished him.

"Considering a person as a packet of tea is the closest my brother will ever come to appreciating the human heart, I find it's very relevant, John. And the tea analogy worked very well with you, especially when I discovered you were good for reuse."

John stared at Sherlock, a rather familiar shocked and hurt expression warring on his face. "I'm a used teabag to you."

Sherlock gave him a tired look that silently balked at John's misery. "Yes, and you've gotten a bit weaker over the years. Only to be expected. It'll happen to Lestrade and Mycroft as well, they'll be doing each other's laundry and arguing over who has the best sale on coffee soon enough."

"How's about you both stop talking and mind your own!" Lestrade shouted, and slammed on the brakes as he nearly ran a red light, sending both John and Sherlock snapping back and forth in their seats hard enough to nearly topple out of them.

The interior of the car was suddenly pin drop quiet.

Mycroft folded his hands across his stomach, the tension in the car easing the longer the silence was allowed to progress. He sighed and pulled out his cell phone, calling up the blurry image Nigel Ibenescu had sent both Gregory and DI Donovan and which Gregory forwarded to Mycroft's phone as well. "He looks very familiar," Mycroft said, bringing the focus of their journey back to the case and he liked the way Gregory seemed to sigh in relief at this. "I am convinced this is SVR RF operative Vlad Cosovas, a known Russian assassin who has been responsible for several key murders, the latest ones on record amongst leading insurgents in the Ukraine. He is exceptionally dangerous and will require care to eliminate."

Gregory chuckled at this. "That ain't no Russian heavy, that's Darius Romanov, one of Darko's men sent to do the deed and wipe the world clean of Nigel. I don't for a second believe Adam's his target, like Nigel thinks, he's the one Darko has the biggest grudge against and maybe the little leaks of names over the last few years have finally left a trail back to that hothead's door."

Mycroft pondered this, the fuzzy picture of the brutish looking man not confirming or denying both scenarios. He frowned, and closed off his cell phone, placing the question back into his side jacket pocket. "Surveillance of their home has given us nothing. The camera in the bedroom has been malfunctioning, if they have a habit of discussing sensitive matters there we've been shut out. I'm going to have to replace it."

"Don't know why you would bother," Sherlock said, giving his brother an evil smile through the rear view window. "It's not like you need to play voyeur to get your jollies anymore, is it?"

"Hourly surveillance is the job of lesser agents, I am a Director, wholly not related, I am not their peer," Mycroft reminded him.

"Sure," Sherlock said, and Mycroft didn't like at all the way Gregory shifted uncomfortably in his driver's seat. "No sneaky peeks on your off days."

~*~

Nigel Ibenescu was not in a good mood when they were given entrance to the flat, his amber eyes heavily bagged and bloodshot, the bruising Gregory had put on him yellowing along the sharp bone of his left cheek. He sat at the kitchen counter with what looked to Mycroft like a vial of bright orange Kool-Aid and poured an equally long, thin glass for Gregory and then a third for Mycroft. He clinked at the rims of them both and then held it up. "To that fucking bastard piece of shit Darko, the only real brother I will know. Rest in peace, you fucking cunt." And with that salute he tossed his head back and knocked the syrupy liquor down with it.

Mycroft braced himself, knowing it would be inexcusable not to accept a toast of Romanian palinka and he fought to keep the vile burn of it down. He coughed and nearly fell from the stool at the counter, his throat working the poison down with choking effort.

Gregory knocked it back like it was water and bid Nigel to pour him another. "So Darko's done in, then?"

"Fucking airplane over Morocco." Nigel pushed the air in front of him as though it were a heavy weight. "Right out the fucking door where he flew four hundred feet into the middle of a market street. We all get what we deserve in the end, am I fucking right? Maybe someday I'll get something fucking worse."

Greg sighed and took his cell phone out of his side pocket and showed him the picture Nigel had sent him in the small hours of morning. "So, this guy you caught photobombing your life, he someone you know?"

"Damned fucking right he is," Nigel said and Mycroft gently smiled at Gregory's near grin of victory. "That's the fucking bastard Roberto Alvero, one of El Diablo's fucking devils!"

Both Mycroft and Lestrade were taken aback at this, and they gave Nigel twin looks of confusion. "Who the bloody hell is El Diablo?" Gregory exclaimed. He gave Mycroft a widened stare, but Mycroft, no matter how much he searched his own inner library of information, could find nothing. He glanced imploringly at his brother, who was busy playing with a plastic reconstruction of the Andromeda galaxy, the red stars spinning into unnatural orbits as he poked at them. Sherlock caught his brother's eye and shrugged, bored.

"Where is Mr. Cosmonaut?" Sherlock raised a brow at Nigel's scowl. "Look, it's plain to everyone here that you and your associate are in danger. I can't exactly get a good handle on how to protect either of you if I don't at least meet the man."

There was a sudden shift in Nigel's attitude, one that put Mycroft on edge as he watched the former gangster pull out a package of cigarettes and slowly tap one of the cylinders out. He took his time lighting it, and he made no effort to offer one to any of the people assembled in the tiny flat. The smashed front window had been replaced, badly, and tufts of frozen afternoon air and little pockmarks of snow seeped in through the gaps around its ill fitting frame. Nigel took a long drag of his cigarette, amber eyes unblinking on Sherlock as he sucked the smoke in and let it out in a long, tortuous breath.

"He looks like a cobra," Mycroft thought, his own icy mask in place lest the dangerous man see him shiver.

"I don't like the fucking police," Nigel said, deep throating his smoke, tongue lapping at it as it escaped his lungs, as though he feasted on fire.

"Some of them are barely tolerable." Sherlock nodded at Lestrade who rolled his eyes at him. "But I admit I have the same feeling. Most of them are complete imbeciles. I must insist, however. Is he here?" Sherlock pointed to the closed bedroom door. "Highly unsociable fellow, classic signs of psychopathic brilliance. No one's company is as good as one's own."

"Sherlock, it's not like that," Gregory said, and he gave a little laugh and a half shrug at Nigel who only glared at him with stone faced, thinly veiled fury. "Look, Sherlock, leave it be, will you?"

But the world's finest Consulting Detective was not to be deterred by the warning words of a mere DCI, nor the concerned posture of a man who was 'sometimes' the British government. Sherlock marched with exactly three long strides across the living room, Dr. John Watson toddling in tow as he opened the bedroom door and shouted into the murky blue glow within: "Adam Raki! OUT!"

Mycroft couldn't stop himself from feeling a certain unhealthy curiosity at the prospect of meeting the man who was set to destroy all future hope of space weaponry face to face, and he turned on his stool, craning his neck to see past Sherlock's gangly, overbearing form, his ridiculously flamboyant coat getting in the way of the view.

Like a nervous deer, peeking out from the cover of foliage and daring to step into sunlight, Adam Raki stepped out of the bedroom and into the living space, wide eyed and clearly terrified at the collection of strangers before him. Mycroft felt himself gasp as he looked at him, for he really was strikingly beautiful and if he'd doubted John's assertion that Adam and Nigel were lovers, it was eradicated in an instant at the way Nigel gave Adam a helpful wink and said, with a boldness that made even Sherlock blush: "These fuckers want to talk to you, darling. Don't be shy, that one behind him, there, the short one, he's going to go in and check if there are cum stains on our sheets. Fucking nosy assholes."

Adam's head shook, shockingly angelic blue eyes frowning slightly, his mouth a cherub pout that would make a work of classical art jealous. "I doubt that very much, Nigel." He had a strange way of looking at everything around him and not at his intended target, avoiding Sherlock's gaze as well as John's, opting instead to hurry past them, head down as he dove for the hard sofa and pinned himself in its corner. He had odd tics, and the more Mycroft watched him, the more Adam Raki thrummed his fingers on the tops of his thighs, keeping his gaze strictly averted. When he did swivel his head their way, his eyes locked solely with Nigel's, and even then the contact was as fleeting as the flap of a sparrow wing, wavering along a delicate current of understanding.

"Do you want an orange soda, gorgeous?" Nigel asked him.

"Yes. Thank you."

Voice like a computer program. Bland. Emotionless.

Fingers tap-tapping on the tops of his slender thighs. He wore dark brown corduroys, a simple pale yellow cotton shirt and a plain, green v-neck sweater, all modes of style that would make Dr. John Watson seem a fashionista in comparison. He looked painfully young, with blemish free skin that had a silken smoothness to it. No one would ever guess the man was thirty-six. He looked otherworldly to Mycroft. A Raphaelite angel that had captured the soul of a devil.

Nigel left his stool at the kitchen counter, cigarette clamped between his teeth as he headed for the refrigerator, ready to get Adam his orange soda. It was at this moment that Sherlock took his opportunity to strike, suddenly swarming into Adam Raki's personal space like a bird of prey, his words fast and furious as he shouted at him. "Now look here, we know what you are up to! Give us the program and be done with it! What's it for? What are you doing with it? Come on, speak! SPEAK!"

Sherlock's shouting shattered the sense of neat calm within the flat, sending its realm into chaos. Nigel slammed the refrigerator door shut and began a tirade of his own, which Sherlock fought to ignore as he bent to hear Adam's answer, one he'd hoped to shock out of him.

But Adam wasn't saying anything in relation to what Sherlock wanted. He stammered and slapped his palms on his thighs hard enough to leave a mark and reacted as though Sherlock's outburst had smashed his living room window anew. And from the way Nigel dropped the can of soda on the floor and ran to him, and grabbed his shoulders, telling him to breathe, breathe, breathe...It was quite evident to even the most dim person on the planet that Sherlock's words really did *wound* him.

"What's he saying?" Sherlock said, staggering back and looking down at Adam Raki as though he was a strange little bug he hadn't yet categorized. "Why is he acting like that? No one ever does that, shock makes them state the truth without all that *fluff* in the middle! Why is he going on about planets? He's talking like an old ticker-tape machine. Is this some kind of code?"

Mycroft could hear Adam's mantra, Nigel shushing him as he rocked back and forth, assuring him he was fine, his curses oddly lyrical when he talked to Adam.

"Collusion between galaxies have been documented, these collisions resulting in the removal of interstellar matter, which then converts spiral galaxies into S0 galaxies, the occurrence creating a massive force that then distorts the galaxies, reforming them into elliptical shapes and the galaxies are placed into a net effect which grinds them down into finer particles, eradicating their existence while keeping the resonance of their orbits..."

"No need to be so scared, darling, I am here so nothing fucking matters. I will get another soda, this one is going to fizz, and we don't fucking want that." He held his cigarette aloft and gave Adam a light kiss in the hollow of his cheek and a reassuring massage on the back of his neck before standing up.

Sherlock was still confused. He pointed at Adam, "He's.."

"He has Asperger's syndrome," Gregory said, his fingers massaging his temples, his angry wince telling Mycroft he had one corker of a migraine. Behind him Dr. John Watson made an "Ahh!" murmur of understanding and actually grinned.

Sherlock stood silent in the middle of the living room.

"I have no idea what that means," he said.

Nigel had no problem explaining it to him. "It means every one of you get the fuck out of here before I fucking kill you all and piss on your fucking corpses you fucking ignorant stupid ass cuntlick pieces of shit bastard pricks, GET THE FUCK OUT!"

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Lestrade and Mycroft have a godawful, busy week. At least there are pastries.

IT'S THE SIMPLE THINGS  
chapter six

Lestrade was getting real tired of being mentally and physically crammed in what was usually his very comfortable, pleasant Mercedes. He would have much preferred to be quietly driving to New Scotland Yard with Mycroft in tow, his enjoyment of the man's company enough to make him forgo his usual rule of not allowing anyone else near the radio of his car. Classical music poured out of it now, and while he would have liked to pound the heels of his hands on his steering wheel while listening to The Selector, he would make do for Mycroft's sanity.

"We've learned nothing and I didn't get a chance to replace the camera. Wonderful work, as always, dear brother. Traumatizing a disabled man, how incredibly productive!"

Sherlock made a shocked, choked noise at this, his mouth hanging open as he hunkered down in the back seat of the car. "I didn't know he had, whatever it is he has--Oh come on, don't look at me like that, John! It's not like he's missing a leg!"

John face palmed with two hands as he sat beside Sherlock. "Asperger's is a condition on the autism spectrum, Sherlock, its hallmarks are an inability to maintain eye contact, nervous tics, face blindness and obsessive compulsive behaviours. Your outburst didn't get the result you wanted because Adam Raki can't read your body language at all, he had no understanding of why you were shouting only that it was a frightening experience."

"Thus, he reverted to his usual coping mechanism," Lestrade added, agreeing with Dr. Watson's assessment. "He comforts himself by studying space, I've said this many a time, his obsession with it serves a function. Adam Raki does not live in the world like you and I do, he has to compartmentalize, otherwise everything overwhelms him."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side at this. "How are you so knowledgeable about this sort of thing, Gerry?"

"I have a psychology degree! I've only told you a dozen times!" Lestrade grit his teeth. "Look, you upset him and he went into astronomy mantra mode. Good luck getting anything out of him now, Nigel will never let us step foot in that apartment again."

Lestrade turned onto a busy London street, all feeling of fight within him quashed as myriad black taxis cluttered up the road before him. It was going to take ages to get back to New Scotland Yard, and from what he'd gathered on his scanner the highway was just as congested. He gave Mycroft a sidelong glance and wondered if the man had clout enough to direct traffic and clear a direct path for them, but the steely way Mycroft glared through the windshield, lost in internal thought, kept Lestrade from making the request.

They rolled to a crowded four-way stop and Lestrade glanced up at the traffic lights, the CCTV camera bearing down on them. Surveillance. Lestrade bit the inside of his cheek and felt an unwelcome, sour understanding creep within his gut, one that had Mycroft staring with the same emptiness he had now into a computer screen, watching every villain known to man fucking with abandon. He didn't like the image, the very idea of Mycroft getting his rocks off on a passion that had no right to belong to him, in any capacity. Of course he must have, Lestrade miserably reasoned, a person couldn't just emptily watch as if they were neutered and it wasn't like he didn't know how sensual Mycroft could damned well be. This week had been a crash course in *that*.

"As for this being a hopeless waste of time, Mr. Mycroft Holmes, you couldn't be more bloody wrong. We got a name, and I already got Sally working on it, she's sending the description and all the info through to the DEA. If there's a Columbian connection, which I suspect there is, it'll be the Americans who can give us the direct link."

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh at this, and raised a brow at what Lestrade knew was a judgement on his short-sightedness. He'd seen that look often enough on Sherlock and it annoyed him to see it mirrored on his brother. "That will not help my cause at all, Gregory. The focus of my concern is Adam Raki and the possibility of his malignant space program and the ensuing international manhunt to get to him first. I have no interest in some drug runner's latent hostile takeover."

Lestrade couldn't believe what he was hearing. He ran a yellow light and nearly collided with a transport truck, narrowly swerving right as he slid through the intersection and giving Dr. Watson one hell of a good fright in the process.

"For God's sake, man, watch the road!"

"It's defensive driving and are you wearing your seatbelt like your supposed to? Buckle up, Sherlock, or I'll make you pay the fine! I'm not telling you twice!" Lestrade grimaced into the rearview mirror before placing his attention back on Mycroft. "You're being bloody narrow minded about this whole thing. You need to start paying attention to a very big picture, this is not just Adam Raki's brain we're talking about here, this is about London's streets going awash in blood because one gang is set to cancel out another."

"I don't see any connection," Mycroft coldly replied.

"Really, is it that alien to you that some things are a tad more close to the bone? Do you think for a second that the Columbian cartel wouldn't want to pick Adam Raki's lovely brain if they had wind of any sort that he had some kind of secret weapon lurking around up there? There's one thing I can tell you for sure about drug addicts, Mycroft, it's that they come from all walks of life and there's not a lick of reason as to who's going to fall into that trap. And not a one of them ever has the right amount of money, they all live on loans, and if you can't pay, a lot of times information is currency. Streetwalkers and politicians, and all the creepy shit they get up to together, they make up the bulk of those deals, make no mistake. Your secret's not as safe as you think."

Sherlock nudged John hard enough to make him complain and give him a whining curse. Sherlock's eyes were wide with false tears to match his childishness. "I just hate it when Mummy and Daddy fight."

"Sherlock, please, do shut up," Mycroft snapped, and gave Lestrade a roll of his eyes and an exasperated, long suffering sigh. "I will take your advice to heart. Is there any way you can drop me off at The Diogenes Club? I am meeting a few key associates there this afternoon to plan a course of action. I do expect that Anthea has already found the relevant information on this Ricardo Alvados, and she has instructions to send it to you, as well. I may need to bring you in on an international conference call as a seasoned expert, the men I'll be talking to about this development are exceptionally dim." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose as though he was already there, answering questions that infants would find ignorant. "You're absolutely right, of course, regardless of whether the target is Adam Raki or Nigel Ibenescu their problems are so interwoven it's impossible to fully extract them."

Lestrade heard his cell phone ping and he motioned for Mycroft to take it out of his pocket. "That's from Donovan. Read to me what she says."

Mycroft swiped the screen and entered Lestrade's pass code effortlessly. Of course he'd watched him, the path of Lestrade's fingers making it a guess without effort. Lestrade secretly smiled, thinking on how chuffed Mycroft must feel to be typing in 0007 and knowing it was about *him*.

"She's heard from the DEA. Ricardo Alvados is working under the guidance of a couple of known upper level management fixers for the newest leader of the El Diablo cartel in Columbia. According to the DEA, El Diablo is a large, wealthy cartel that has mostly dealt with American markets and only recently expanded into Eastern Europe." Mycroft frowned as he read over the texts from DI Sally Donovan, her thorough doggedness surprising him. "There's a whole history of the cartel here, I'm sure she'll appraise you, but it seems the crux of the matter is that it is under new management. Gabriel Hortense was murdered last month and his sole living heir, Geraldo Munandez, is leading the pack."

"Fucking bloody Munandez," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "No wonder we've got problems."

Mycroft Holmes might be the government at certain times of the day, and he might just be the man who prevents world wars from happening on a daily basis. But he was not the front line worker in the pits against organized drug cartels and their slimy ilk, that glamorous job fell to people like Lestrade, who categorized and watched the various branches of their tangling family trees, digging deep until the roots finally gave up their core. In this case, the family's patriarch, Gabriel Hortense, was a fairly benign version of a Columbian cartel king, keen to simply make business transactions that he knew would prove profitable, and ensuring the people who worked for him had ample benefits and loyalty. Unlike many in his position, Gabriel was not fond of bloodbaths and preferred peaceable transactions. He still had a hit list a mile long of politicians he had snuffed out as well as buyers who tried to rip him off, but the blood he spilled was strictly insular in nature. No outsider causalities, no family bloodshed. It was a methodology that endeared him to his most fervent followers, and earned respect from his enemies. His focus on business first kept Gabriel's influence strictly on Columbian soil.

But, as is always the case, Gabriel was now dead and there was a new king and this one had set his sights on conquest. Lestrade had a hunch this thing wasn't going to go the way he wanted, that its ugliness was going to stain all of London red if something wasn't done and quick. "I hope you got your people looking for Ricardo Alvados," Lestrade said, in a not so subtle hint for help.

"Of course," Mycroft instantly assured him. "He will be brought to your station for questioning. Several of my agents will interview him first to ensure he will talk, no point wasting time if he won't. It won't be long, we will find him."

"There might be more," Lestrade reasoned, thinking on it. "You might want to check and see who has flown here to London from Columbia the last couple of days. There will be some significant names on there, I can guarantee it."

"I will take that into consideration."

Lestrade felt jumpy at the prospect of what they were wandering into, for there was nothing more unpredictable than a violent drug cartel reshuffling its power structure. Gabriel might have ruled his people with an almost benign indifference in comparison to others, but Lestrade could sense in his gut that a dangerous shift had occurred, and there was a good chance that people at the forefront of the investigation were going to get hurt. A pang hit him as he thought of the hundreds of pictures of drug lords and officers alike in his homicide files, people who had been brutally tortured and murdered, Darko himself cruelly ejected from a plane to splatter on the ground in a busy market. He didn't want to be scraping up fellow officers in London. He didn't like that Mycroft was involved, and Lestrade's heart twisted in its cage, his stomach lurching at the very thought. It was foolish to worry about him, really, the man was a cold professional when he wanted to be, and there was a definite brand of ruthlessness within him that went well beyond the protection of king and country.

The thing is, Lestrade was now a man who knew too much, and he just couldn't get it out of his head how Mycroft had reacted when he'd given him an extra key to his condo. Lestrade had said, in essence, 'make yourself a home', and those icy, impassive eyes had widened and melted, actually *melted*. Under all that snobbish pomp and seemingly inhuman self control, Mycroft Holmes was just as fragile and uncertain as the next human being. Lestrade knew he was the only person on earth privy to it, and he guarded that knowledge with everything he had in him.

"I'll drop the kids off first," Lestrade said, nodding back at Sherlock and John who were huddled in conversation in the back seat. "It's going to be a late night for me, and probably you as well. I need you to be extra careful, all of you, keep your names out of this investigation and if you see anyone skulking around, and I mean *anyone*, you contact me immediately, got it? These punters are dangerous with a capital 'D', they aren't like your usual East End heavies, unstable regimes like this, they don't think twice when it comes to civilian collateral damage. Tread real light and careful. And for God's sake, keep your names out of the bloody papers this week."

John was especially worried at Lestrade's serious tone. "You're acting like we're being pulled into Nigel Ibenescu's private war."

"If they've been tailing him, and it's the Columbians, then yeah, it's as bad as all that. They got a look at us. We have just as much a target on us as anyone else in Nigel's influence. Like a bloody virus. We just gotta pretend we're neutral while we figure out what's going on with this new bastard they got running the El Diablo show." He gave Mycroft a sidelong glance. "You want some coffee after I drop them off? I'll go to that nice patisserie you like in Soho. Maison Bertaux, it's on the way."

Mycroft gave him a lazy smile, "My dear Gregory, that would be delightful! And an empire tart to go with it, they make the best in town."

"A tart," Sherlock snarled. "You are what you eat, dear brother." He ignored Mycroft's piercing glare as he nearly jumped out of the back seat, suddenly cheerful and excited. "I want a lemon square!"

"Blueberry crumble pasty," John quickly added. "And a raspberry flavoured dark roast with almond soy milk and a small, not too much, sprinkle of cinnamon."

"And a caramel brownie," Mycroft added. "The one with the marshmallows."

"Get two!" Sherlock shouted. "And a London Fog latte!"

"I guess this means the whole gang is joining us," Lestrade said through clenched teeth, feeling far more babysitter than officer of the law with some Serious Problems lurking in his very near future. Of course he was going to take them all to Maison Bertaux and indulge them, that's who he was, measures of forgotten kindnesses metered out as a medicinal balm against impending doom. He'd won every battle with that method. He looked sidelong at Mycroft, whose mood was significantly lighter than just moments before. Lestrade smiled. He'd won this one, too.  
  
~*~

Everyone sugared up and drowning in hot caffeine, Lestrade had taxied John and Sherlock home and then swung back to The Diogenes Club to drop off Mycroft, earning a soft, coffee flavoured kiss for his efforts that definitely made Sherlock's incessant whining over the tepid state of his London Fog latte worth it.

"This is Darjeeling! This is not Earl Grey!"

"Just drink the bloody tea and shut your gob, Sherlock!" Lestrade had shouted at him.  
  
But the petulant chaos of Mycroft's younger brother was forgotten the moment he'd dumped the duo off at 221B Baker Street and he and Mycroft were alone once more, the mood in the car far more stable and calm. Lestrade rested his palm on Mycroft's thigh in a gesture of affection that was openly welcomed. "Things could get dangerous, yeah?" Lestrade continued to remind him. "I can count on you to be vigilant?"

Mycroft had inclined his head at this, in an almost shy gesture. "I'm not used to this."

"Used to what?"

"This whole caring business. I never realized how difficult it is, being on the receiving end of it."

Mycroft sighed deeply and braced his shoulders as they approached the entrance to The Diogenes Club, his coffee held tightly in hand, as well as the little flowered bag that held his sweet treats. Lestrade had stolen that lovely kiss at that moment, coffee infused and hopeful. He watched Mycroft as he entered the austere building, all determination and cold assessment save for the swing of a delicate patisserie bag in his grip. For Lestrade it belied a certain, unexpected brittleness to Mycroft's otherwise steely resolve. A literal, sweet note of vulnerability.

He was going to have to be very careful with this man's heart, Lestrade realized. He was wound so tight shattering it would be catastrophic.

Lestrade was barely in the door of New Scotland Yard when DI Sally Donovan and Inspector Dimmock ran up to him, filling him in on a shootout that had happened moments before in Hackney. Donovan furiously fired off information at him, not waiting for him to get a sip of his now cold coffee in, her face an angry blur.

"We're sure it's a Columbian hit, and it's to do with your man, Nigel Ibenescu. I knew we shouldn't have let him out of our sight! A whole family, sir. Mother, two boys aged six and eight, and the father, all shot close range while they were seated in the kitchen. Even shot the damned dog, a Rottweiler. Reports are coming in on the family, and the father had a direct tie with Darko's gang in Romania. Did some gun running for him a few years ago, but nothing since, and he was actually living clean for an accounting firm since. He wasn't a threat."

Dimmock was sliding on his coat. "What do you think this means, sir? If there's no clear connection, there's no reason for them to have been murdered."

Lestrade didn't like the violent nag that was settling in his gut and he ignored it until he had more to go on. "Send firearm officers over to secure the scene, we can't be too careful with these bastards. I'm not having the Holly Street Estates turn into a bloody butchery any more than it already has."

~*~

The scene was a particularly grisly one. Lestrade kept his back to it as forensics finished up bagging the bodies, his gaze riveted on the tattered grounds below. Francis Yardsmouth was on the sidewalk, riding his bicycle and playing truant, as usual. The kid lived in a worn down tenement several blocks away but he was clearly drawn to the scene at the sound of police sirens and howling firearms vans. He watched the ten year old's nappy, red head disappear into a sharp corner, the click of his wheels tinnily echoing up into the open window of the council flat. Police cars and the coroner's van lay sprinkled across the grounds like toys, officers from the firearms units standing about with assault rifles at the ready, riot gear in place. They were going to get a lot more action if he didn't find a way to stem the tide of violence before it became a crushing blow against the most destitute of London's citizens. He turned away from the window and stepped gingerly over the blood splattered floor and avoided the walls, the low lying spots signifying where two children had been viciously taken out.

He stepped out of the apartment and headed down the long corridors leading to the ground level, where the clack-clack of Francis's bicycle wheels grew louder. He took out a cigarette when he made it to the walkway, barely acknowledging the plethora of officers around him as he smoked and turned his thoughts to ash. He headed for the shaded area in the corner leading out to the main street, where he saw Francis popping wheelies on his bicycle, round and round in circles.

"Oi! A word!"

The freckled little snot spat on the ground in front of him. "Don't need to talk to you!" His green eyes narrowed on Lestrade in the same manner of a feral cat looking to steal a caged bird. "You got a fag?"

Lestrade took a long drag of his cigarette, pinching it between his fingers as he let out a large plume of smoke. "Like I'm gonna give a ten year old a bleedin' smoke. Tell you what, how about you tell me if you saw anything this morning and I'll think about not telling your Mum about you skipping off school. This is twice I've caught you now. What's the chances she'll let you off easy?"

The kid rolled his bicycle in front of him and put the brakes into a screeching halt, spilling stones over Lestrade's dusty leather shoes. "I don't like school. Teacher makes fun of my hair. He's a right cunt."

Lestrade shrugged, took another smoke. "Get the mop cut, then."

"Can't afford it. Mum says I have to wait a couple more months for when her sister comes to visit, she's a hairdresser in Perth. Either that, or she'll just shave it clean off and that'll be worse. They'll be calling me Eggers again."

He eyed Francis and the state of his clothes, filthy like he'd been sleeping rough, though Lestrade knew he had a bed to sleep in every night, and he was chubby enough to have ample food in his belly. He had the look of a kid who was neglected, though not out of cruelty. "How's your Mum doing, Francis? The chemo going okay?"

Francis shrugged. "She's tired all the time. The cancer's not going nowhere. Came back in her leg, doctor says it's matress sized."

"That's a tough break, that," Lestrade said, taking another drag. "When is your brother getting out of The Scrubs?"

"Next year. February. Don't think he'll be coming home, though. Mum said he ain't welcome." Francis stared up at Lestrade, squinting even though the day was overcast. "Mum says you put him there and it was the right thing to do. Is it true, he beat that man up for nothing? Because he wore a funny hat?"

Lestrade held his breath, wondering how much to reveal to the lad. His brother was a National Front supporter with a borderline personality disorder, the combination of which had near turned deadly. He'd beaten a local shopkeeper near to death, screaming 'Go on back to ISIS, you fucker!' The beaten man was a Sikh, and he'd called London home since he was two years old.

"Your brother has some very serious problems," Lestrade said, instead. "He's not a very safe person to be around, especially with your Mum being so sick."

"He went on right mental when he lived with us, I'm glad he's in jail. I wish he wasn't getting out in February." Francis rocked on his bicycle, the wheels squeaking back and forth.  
  
Lestrade finished his cigarette and crushed the filter with the heel of his worn leather shoe. He nodded at the dark passage that led out to the main street. "You know that barber on the corner, with the bleached out blue Coca-Cola advert in the window?"

Francis nodded.

"Go on in there and say DCI Gregory Lestrade sent you for a chop up, he'll do it for you right away. He's a proper barber, will give you a cut to make a military man jealous. Teacher won't have room to say now't, you'll look smart."

Francis rolled his bicycle back and forth, looking up at Lestrade as he contemplated this. "I could do that," he agreed.

"And back to school afterward, no excuses."

"Yeah." He spun his bicycle in a long, lazy circle in front of Lestrade, his gaze on the broken spokes. "There was two guys went up around ten this morning. Wore ski masks, but you could still tell they weren't from here, brand new winter jackets, Adidas black, red and white, and matching pants, like they just gone shopping and tore off the tags. Spoke Spanish."

With that Francis sped off, not waiting for a thank you or any other acknowledgement, his wheels spinning as though he was convinced he'd already said far too much and was about to join the family currently being layered into the coroner's van. Lestrade watched him go before shoving his hands in his pockets. He fished out his cell phone.

"Mycroft. I got a description for you. I need your team on it now, I want these bastards in my custody within the hour." The cell crackled with static and Lestrade frowned into it. "There's an awful lot of noise on this line, what's going on?"

Mycroft gave Lestrade an exasperated sigh. "I'm on an airplane, headed to Columbia," he explained. "You were absolutely right when you said El Diablo is a problem of a larger reaching importance than I originally had thought. Anthea was able to track down the man who Nigel Ibenescu captured on camera and we are shipping him into your custody now. He's quite a chatty fellow, given the right motivation."

Lestrade could guess what that was. Immunity, promises of protection, the usual crap that didn't always pan out but the stupid and desperate lapped it up. "How high up the chain is he?"

"High enough to give considerable information on what we are dealing with. Gabriel Hortense suffered a coup orchestrated by his brother, Geraldo Munandez, two bullets between the eyes, knocking the top of his skull clean off. I guess he needed to make sure there was no further ideas of peaceable business lurking within his kingdom. Munandez is working hard, taking out of all of his brother's old allies and associates in a bid to thoroughly clean house. According to Ricardo Alvados, Munandez is ordering all of his henchmen to eradicate his potential enemies and their families in a bid to both send a message of his ruthlessness and to eliminate any possible future revenge against him. You know what this means, Gregory."

"Darko has a lot of contacts here in London," Lestrade said, grim. "The place is going to look like a bloody war zone if he gets his way. If this guy has this kind of information, it means he's sending along his middle management to do the dirty work for him. I'll need that list of passengers."

"It's at New Scotland Yard already," Mycroft assured him. "My people are also going through that list and are systematically rounding up suspects..."

"Adidas winter coats, red white and black, matching pants. They went from hot sunshine to cold wet and dreary London, so chances are they nicked the gear, probably from a shop in this area. there will no doubt be surveillance on your CCTV worth pulling up." Lestrade paused in his conversation. "All the way to Columbia? Bring back some good coffee, or we'll be stuck using that flavoured supermarket crap my sister Betty gave me at Christmas. Got bags of the stuff, should chuck it, really."

Mycroft lightly laughed at this. "I'll see what I can do. I have an emergency meeting when I land with the Columbian president. If there is one note of assurance I can give you it's that El Diablo will not be a problem of consequence for very long. I'm hoping to have this expedited post haste to prevent any further fallout. Romania is also on high alert, as the main Darko factions there may suffer retaliation as well. The chesters are getting in some serious overtime."

"As am I," Lestrade lamented. "I can already feel the days stretching out ahead of us. I'm getting snake eyes from Donovan, I'd better go. Keep me posted on your progress. Have a good flight in and better yet, hurry up and get back."

Mycroft sighed, its weariness catching that little hook in Lestrade's heart. "I do hate intercontinental flights. Almost as much as I hate the tropics. Bugs and sweat. Damn, I'm being summoned for a group think, it's all so tedious, these DEA agents are so infuriatingly chatty. It's going to be hours of talking about raiding medical marijuana stores and incarcerating the elderly. There's no point in being a voice of reason, they look at any criticism of these ineffective methods as a form of insanity."

"Go on then, you mad thing," Lestrade said, grinning over his endearment. "I'll call you with any developments."

~*~  
Three days. It took three days to bring the new leader of El Diablo to his knees and to ensure the safety of London's innocent citizens. Three days of constant interrogations and dealings with men who had no qualms against putting a bullet into the head of a six year old boy and his eight year old brother, three days of constant back and forth Skype messages between the DEA's lead investigator who had flown to Columbia with Mycroft, three days of Lestrade wiping his city streets clean of any lingering animosity between dealers and deportations of criminals who were being extradited back to Columbia for committing any number of nefarious crimes in their own home country, the murder of a family in London just one of many on a very, very long list.

So it was ironic that the best information they received was from Ricardo Alvados, whose massive bulk dwarfed the tiny plastic chair he sat in across from Lestrade and Donovan, his head bowed as he spoke with a soft, Spanish accent. "Nobody wants this to happen," he told them. "This guy, this Munandez. He's fucking loco, man. He sent me here _para mi abuela_ immigrated and moved to Camden in 1967. Said he'd keep her safe if I just do my job, take out Nigel and his little friend and that's it. I ain't no killer, man. I was in university, it was my cousin, he got me in this trouble. Doing coke and being stupid and then he tells me how to make easy money. _Esto es malo para mi, no tengo nada_."

Lestrade wasn't stupid enough to believe the whole sob story, if anything the reality was that Ricardo Alvados had been paid in advance to do the hit and saw an easy alibi in his grandmother. He hadn't expected to have his picture taken at the scene of a potential crime, and though the image was fuzzy and he was impossible to properly identify, he didn't know that. Despite his burly appearance, Ricardo was young and naive and on foreign soil with no fellow gang members to back him up. Under Lestrade's gentle prodding, he was a canary in a coal mine.

Besides, Mycroft's crew had gotten to him first and given him a real shake-up, threatening him with all manner of illegal activities and no protection against El Diablo's current oligarch if he didn't talk freely. It wasn't a method Lestrade preferred, he would have brought the kid's grandmother in and had her prod him into submission first, that usually had the big tough guys bawling.

Luckily, Ricardo was willing to talk without that kind of matriarchal interference, and he laid out El Diablo's current mode of conquest with alarming detail. The plan was to eradicate all of Darko's connections, right into their family units, the ones in Romania as well as the ones in London and ones in pocket cities in various locations throughout Eastern Europe. It was a big undertaking and many, rightfully so, thought Munandez was mad for doing it. Gabriel had run his business successfully without this kind of all out war, and Munandez was creating unnecessary turmoil. Not to mention his poor business skills, which were evident the minute Darko was taken out. The dealers in London were getting hit hard since Darko was the cheaper supplier, and the sudden, overnight rise in price was too much for them to handle. Heroin was going for double the price it had gone for just that morning, and quotas weren't set to be met. Munandez ordered a hit on anyone who didn't make his pockets sing by the weekend. Since nobody was making the cut, and Munandez's goons were mindless killing machines, they had just narrowly missed a massive massacre on London's streets.

The call from Mycroft came after his interrogation of Alvados. Lestrade's office was a factory of papers and he hadn't slept in nearly seventy-two hours, the three days of straight adrenaline hitting him hard. His veins felt like they were made of coffee.

He hadn't touched the paperwork yet. A mountain didn't begin to describe it. There were extradition reports, murder charges, conspiracy charges, drug trafficking. All of it a mess of criminal navigating that he was set to handle, boxes and boxes of it. Sleep wasn't an option.

"Gregory." Mycroft, breathless, sounding wired. "I'm on a plane, returning to London. El Diablo is no longer a problem. It seems he met with a rather unfortunate automobile accident and is quite dead. His far more moderate cousin is now in his place within the cartel. The Columbian president was rather resistant to the deal, but after reminding him how it was spilling out into international concerns, he conceded that this succession would be best. At least, for now."

"An unfortunate auto accident. How karmic." Lestrade chewed the inside of his cheek. "And so the influence of a mysterious low level government official can be felt halfway across the globe. Is this your version of a butterfly effect, Mycroft?"

Mycroft groaned. "It is not without consequence. My dearest Gregory, I am trapped on this flight with yet another insipid man sitting beside me, a high ranking general of a country I cannot disclose to you, and he is an insufferable, unbearable bore. Hours of discussion about the new linoleum in his country house. I'm considering secretly sedating him for the remainder of the flight. I can tell you this now because he has gone to the loo and ah, yes, he's heading back now, cup of nasty coffee slopping all over his hand and he'll be dripping it on my good suit. Bloody bother! I will not be arriving in Heathrow until nine o'clock tomorrow morning, and as per usual, I have received an unkind summons from my brother that you and I are to meet him immediately on my return at 221B for a 'shocking development' in regards to Adam Raki."

Lestrade rubbed his tired eyes with the heel of his hands. "Just as well, I'll have to let Nigel know he's got nothing to fear in regards to either Darko or the Columbians now and he can put the angry tiger act to rest. Are you seriously going to drug a man just to get some peace and quiet on a flight?"

"It's a long flight, Gregory."

"You won't sleep anyway, you kept complaining about how uncomfortable the chairs are, and your phone keeps ringing. If it makes you feel any better I think I might have an hour's worth of rest coming up sometime next week. Not sure, though. Oh, and you'd best see if you can swing a deal on ink for the entirety of England, it seems I'm going to be pouring enough of it on paper to cause a shortage."

"That bad?"

"That bad."

Mycroft hummed in sympathy at this. "I'm actually quite impressed with your ability to wrap this mess up so tightly. Sherlock has been remiss in his praise of you, Inspector, but I am certainly going to ensure that you are properly rewarded."  
  
Lestrade raised a brow at this. "Are you now? And how do you figure on doing that?"

"Really, Gregory, you are an imaginative man. I trust your memory can offer yourself some rather interesting visuals."

Yes, he most certainly could, especially how Mycroft would stretch out beneath him, hands clutching the sheets, toes curled, neck erotically arched and all those sweet little whimpers he wouldn't dare let anyone else witness. Gregory Lestrade, watching him melt under his warm hands, sweat slicked buttery skin aching for him, soft whispers dancing like tiny motes of shimmering dust across his bed. _"Oh please, Gregory._

_Please..._

_*Please*._ "  
  
But it was afterwards that Gregory loved the best, the way Mycroft would curl into him, filthy pleasures sated, lips lazily seeking him out. Silver eyes half lidded in a kind of hypnotic trance caused by Lestrade's attention, his affection hungry as he pressed close, longing to express it. Despite his distance and cold detachment with others, Mycroft adored being touched. He purred and sighed under every stroke of Lestrade's hands on his back, circles drawn around his bared hips, eliciting contented sighs as he drifted into sleep in his lover's arms.

"Gregory?"

"I..What? Yeah, just...Thinking." He pinched his brow, forcing wakefulness to remain. "It's awfully quiet, are you alone at long last?"

"No, he's been momentarily distracted by the American Secretary of State. I'm going to have to go and work some damage control, he's starting to pilfer the liquor cabinet. I'm forever babysitting morons." Mycroft let out yet another harshly put upon sigh. "I miss you. I miss our bed. I very much especially miss our bed."

"We won't be seeing it until the end of next week if Sherlock gets his way," Lestrade warned him.

Mycroft scoffed at this. "My brother's whims are going to have to be seriously cut off at the quick. We are not to be at his instant beck and call like some package deal, we both have demands put upon us that are not always Sherlockian in scope. I don't know how John does it, the man can supercede his life over everyone else's needs with nary a thought to its effects. The general has now just palmed the American Secretary of State's left breast. My darling, I have to go. Anthea will pick you up from New Scotland Yard in the morning after picking me up at the airport. The only good thing about this flight is how eager I am to see you again." Mycroft suddenly whispered into the phone. "I am absolutely shivering for it."

With that sweet confession he hung up, leaving Lestrade feeling a warmth within him that hadn't given him time to properly answer him. To use words such as, "I can't wait to see you too, my love. My mad, mad love."

Because it was definitely getting to this point, at least for Lestrade, always on that side of it, falling so deep and easy, only this time it really was different. He could feel it, the desperate sting of it in his heart, the hook that was always present, pulling him towards Mycroft, seeking all those little hidden drawers and wanting to peek inside to see what was placed there. He wasn't a fool, he knew there was longing, and practised calm to hide his fears, intricate, delicate little locks that Lestrade was set to patiently pick apart with well placed kisses and moaning sighs. Somewhere in that heart of his, Lestrade was hidden in it, too.

He loved him. He fucking loved Mycroft Holmes. DCI Gregory Lestrade picked up his blue fountain pen and pulled a stack of papers towards him, his mind reeling at the thought of concentrating on this when all he could think of was reckless Mycroft's admission that he missed him. He chewed the tip of his pen, thinking he would never need to sleep again if it meant he could spend at least five minutes alone with Mycroft the second he got off that damned plane.

Damn it all to hell. Nigel was right. He really was a fucking fool.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not an easy thing always being a man in control. That's a cruel thing to do to a Mercedes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I am not a hacker, nor anyone especially skilled at computer programming, I'm sure my facts are wonky. If you would like to assist me in making it sound more realistic, by all means *help!* :P

IT'S THE SIMPLE THINGS  
chapter seven

It didn't matter that he was unwashed, hair in messy, grey strings, unshaven, suit wrinkled and pockmarked with coffee stains, fingers dyed blue from ink, eyes so ringed in black circles he looked as though he'd suffered a good bruising. As Mycroft stood beside him on the kerb in front of 221B on Baker Street, he couldn't imagine being in the presence of a more handsome man. Though he kept up the cold facade, (mostly for Anthea's sake, though he doubted his astute assistant was fooled for a second) he was sure Gregory could sense how tense and needful he was. His own appearance was impeccable, head held high in seeming indestructible measures of personal strength. He felt his breath quicken as Gregory placed a heavy hand on the small of his back and gestured to the black lacquered door in front of them, too tired to speak.

"My dearest Gregory, you are a sight," Mycroft lamented. How dreadful this was, standing on this kerb, Gregory's warm hand on his back, Mycroft's heart hammering, the utter longing that crept through his own tired being an exhausted trail of words he simply didn't want to speak. Words that held the shape of _'I missed you', 'I am proud of you', 'You are glorious, DCI Gregory Lestrade', 'How desperately I want to kiss you'_. But he held back, the slight tremble in his hand as he knocked on the door hopefully imperceptible to Lestrade, who looked to be at the end of his physical limit.

Mrs. Hudson let them in with a shocked exclamation on the state of them both, and Mycroft had to make an instant reassessment of his own appearance. "Oh look at the two of you, like you've been in a dogfight and came out the losers! Dear me, Mr. Holmes, you look pale and gaunt enough to be a spectre, and you, Inspector Lestrade, you look as though you've been wrestling the devil for days. Oh dear, dear me, come in, both of you, head on upstairs and I'll bring you up some tea and toasted crumpets, and I'll bring up that homemade treacle jam I made last summer, won't that be a treat?"

They ignored her nattering as she busied herself in her kitchen and trudged the narrow steps up to Sherlock's flat, Mycroft trailing behind Lestrade's slumped form. They entered the messy abode with frowning question, the place layered in its usual dust, beakers spilling across the kitchen table, newspapers proclaiming Sherlock's victories splayed out on the worn leather couch at the far wall. The black and white wallpaper gave Mycroft a sense of vertigo as he looked at it, and he turned away, barely registering that Lestrade was marching down the long, narrow hall leading to the bathing room and Sherlock's bedroom, his voice booming through the old Victorian styled space.

"Don't tell me Himself isn't even home!" Lestrade angrily snarled as he stomped down the narrow hall. "Sherlock! You summoned us, you bastard, you'd best not be sleeping in!" He near kicked open Sherlock's bedroom door, but the bed, messy and tangled and in as equal a confused disarray as the rest of the flat, was empty. Sighing through clenched teeth, Lestrade charged up the stairs near Sherlock's door and up into the room that had once housed Dr. John Watson, only to discover a tidy, neat space, with a perfectly made king sized bed with fresh covers and spare furnishings. Mycroft stood in the doorway, still wearing his coat and holding his umbrella, which he leaned on for support as he surveyed the small room. Sherlock hadn't touched it since John had moved out. The musty air within suggested it had become a storage room of that memory, one imbibed with Sherlock's latent guilt.

Lestrade had no such thought for Sherlock's regret, and he kicked off his worn leather shoes and plopped onto the surface of the bed on his back, his grey woollen coat splayed out around him as his head hit the pillow. Mycroft cautiously approached him, his umbrella hung on a wooden chair placed near an empty, antique desk, his own coat slid off and carefully folded over it before he sat on the edge of the bed beside Gregory. "He will no doubt be back very soon. You know as well as I that this is no place of rest."

Lestrade growled and nuzzled his cheek deeper into the soft, white pillow beneath his head. "I don't care," he grumbled.

Mycroft kicked off his very expensive Italian leather shoes and sank onto his back, joining him, the back of his head hitting the fluffy, twin pillow beside Lestrade's as though an actual cloud had formed and sucked his body into its comfort. He felt Lestrade's arm curl around his waist, pulling him close until their brows were near touching, a soft kiss at Mycroft's slender throat, making his breath hitch in tremulous expectation.

"Can't do much more than this," Lestrade mumbled into Mycroft's shoulder. "Too bloody tired."

An overwhelming feeling of protective tenderness overtook Mycroft, and he sank into Lestrade's embrace, kissing his forehead lightly as he likewise closed his eyes. Lestrade's breath was hot and even on his neck, his face pressed close to Mycroft's shoulder. "I do admire your tenacity, Gregory. London is safe, thanks almost exclusively to you, I hope you realize this. You are an exceptionally astute man with all the readiness of a top level general."

"I sucked at Risk," Lestrade admitted.

"That is because you are marred by care. Ruthless in your pursuit and yet you use your skills for the benefit of others and never yourself. Always checking in on the pulse of its citizens, always giving everything you've got to make miserable lives just that tiny bit easier. I heard about how you sent that little carrot topped brat to your barber, all expenses paid."

"He's got a tough go of it, his Mom's dying of cancer, and his brother's a gobshite. You were flying into Columbia and still keeping that kind of watch over me? Nice to know I have such an agreeable stalker."

Mycroft pouted slightly at this. "You are an enigma to me," he admitted. "I've never met a man like you before, Gregory. You are powerful in your selflessness. Do you know how special you are?" He pressed his lips against the top of Lestrade's head, his heart aching with a feeling he couldn't identify, yet he was aware the strength of it could easily break him. He would be remiss not to admit it frightened him, the way his heart tugged so in tune with this precious man. Still, he wasn't going to leave this bed, he wasn't going to deny himself or Gregory this delightful comfort, regardless of what his instincts or his infernal inner parchment tried to tell him. "You are very important to me, Gregory. I hope you understand the significance of this."

Mycroft earned a loud, drooling snore as a reply, and he smiled into Lestrade's scalp as he continued to kiss into the grey locks of hair, his nose and chin nuzzling him until he, too, drifted into the warm softness their embrace provided, and fell deep asleep.

~*~

  
He wasn't sure how long they'd had, but Mycroft had a sixth sense when it came to the presence of his brother, a long standing survival technique that had served him well throughout their formative years. He could feel Sherlock's large feet spread wide at the base of the bed, the slight dip in the mattress betraying his weight. Mycroft dared to open his eyes in the tiniest of slivers, just enough to see through the haze of his lashes that his brother was poised at the base of the bed, two large cymbals in his hands, his outstretched arms ready to smash them together in a cacophony of chaos in an instant.

Sherlock's evil plan was halted by Dr. John Watson, who had tiptoed into the room and neatly plucked the cymbals from Sherlock's grip. "Let them sleep," John admonished him, forcing him to step off the edge of the bed and follow him back down the hallway and into the living room. "Have you any idea the stress they must have been under this week? They don't grin over crime scenes like you do, Sherlock, Lestrade had to deal with a rather nasty family massacre and I understand Mycroft just returned from Columbia. Not your average business, so leave them alone!"

Mycroft could hear their voices still drifting in from the living room, Sherlock incensed and petulant that he was being put out like this, especially since Lestrade had a perfectly good enough place to sleep at his condo, he'd seen the bed himself.

"They're mucking up your bed with dirt and hormones!"

"I don't sleep there any more, Sherlock."

"Well, what if you decide to be tired one night and not go home? It's going to reek of them! You'll have unbidden, homosexual dreams as a result, and interaction between us will suddenly become awkward!"

"That is not going to happen, Sherlock," John said, a familiar weariness creeping into his voice, one that Mycroft suffered from himself. "In case you've forgotten, homosexuality is hardly viral. I have never, and am confident I will never, have had an 'uncomfortable' dream about *you*!"

There was a moment of awkward silence at this proclamation, and Mycroft shifted on his back, frowning at it. John and Sherlock's voices drifted into the bedroom, as clear as if they were standing at the foot of the bed.

"Never?" Sherlock cautiously asked.  
  
"Never once," John assured him.

There was another beat of silence at this.

"So what you're really saying is that you've never, never once, had a...Somewhat...Uncomfortable dream about me."

"No Sherlock, I haven't." John was sounding annoyed now, and Mycroft heard the rustle of paper. John, taking in the mid-morning news the old fashioned way. "Why are you looking at me like that?" A sharp intake of breath. "Oh God...No, I don't want to know!"

"Several times, John."

"I don't want to hear about your sex inspired dreams of me, Sherlock, please! Keep it to yourself!"

"I once even awoke to discover I'd had what they politely call a 'night emission'. That was a particularly disturbing dream that involved you, honey flavoured secretions and an insistence on your part of 'presenting'."

"I'm not hearing this Sherlock!"

"...You had a full on erection as well as a pulsating vagina, and I am not going to lie, the combination was spectacularly erotic..."

"Stop! Talking!"

Lestrade rolled onto his side and groaned into his pillow. "Your brother is home," he growled. His voice was muffled by cotton. "I don't suppose he'd thought to bring us coffee, though at this point I think my blood has been switched out for the stuff. I heard Dr. Watson telling him off. The gang's all here, then?"

Mycroft sighed into the way Lestrade's eyes blearily opened, looking like he hadn't rested at all, his body clearly needful of a decent coma and not a harshly disturbed nap. Mycroft slid the back of his hand across the pillowcase creases that had pockmarked Lestrade's cheek. He was rewarded for the small act of tenderness with a gentle kiss placed upon his knuckles. "Has anyone ever told you that you are the perfect sight to wake up to?"

Mycroft could feel the blush erupt across the back of his neck, and Lestrade grinned into it, tickling his neck with small kisses and that earned him a genuine, cheerful chuckle from Mycroft in response.

The chatter in the living room instantly quieted. Sherlock let out a low moan of displeasure. "Did you hear that, John? Is there any sound more perverse on this planet?"

"What?" John asked, genuinely perplexed.

"My brother. Sounding *happy*. Ugh. It's revolting!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the stained ceiling and though everything in his being told him this was not what he really wanted, he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. A groaning, miserable Lestrade did likewise on the opposite side, a wet yawn breaking through the musty stale air of the neglected room.

"I suppose Sherlock is good practise for you," Lestrade said, his voice still groggy, holding onto the raspy tones of sleep. "Just wait until you meet the Oracles. You'd best be bracing yourself for that showdown, once they get wind you and I are a thing, they'll be dying to meet you, and that will be a version of hell that's scared off more than one." Lestrade stood up, still groaning, bracing his back as he stretched his limbs, his shoulders echoing a loud crack in the dusty room.

Mycroft was pensive. "You mean your sisters? I thought they were accepting of your orientation."

"Or they're accepting of *that*, what they don't like are my romantic choices. Can't blame them, really, I mean I had to sleep on Jeanette's couch for over a month thanks to all my funds and furniture getting stolen after the ex-wife took off with some Italian wanker. When I think back on it, it was obvious she was just using me for a place to stay and some cash, and I should have seen the con from a mile away, but you know how it is, you get lonely and you make stupid decisions."

Mycroft shrugged at this. "I suppose that's true."

"Don't go fretting, that's hardly what this is." Lestrade loudly yawned. "Jeanette's the health food nut, works at that organic grocery store they put adverts on during the afternoon telly. Always selling tempeh packets at half off. She eats a like horse, Jeanette does. A real one. All organic barley and oats and brown rice. I lost five pounds in a week."  
  
He circled his arms Mycroft's slender waist, hands splayed wide across his stomach, a sensitive spot for Mycroft as its imagined spread remained a constant source of anxiety. "Then, of course, there's Betty. She has a litter of kids, all from different blokes, plays the harried single mum card all she can and damned if it doesn't end up in me babysitting her more vicious sprogs. Don't get me wrong, I love the little tykes, but when I'm forced to bring them into the station and their knowledgeable bloodthirst is enough to turn DI Donovan's head, it's a wonder I haven't had social services called on me. They got a real thing for the horror movies and Betty lets them watch whatever they want. The one girl, Tiffany, ten years old and cute as a button with curly red hair and the sweetest smile, she's the deadly one. Once brought a murder suspect to tears when she described, in shocking detail, mind, how Jack the Ripper eviscerated his victims and how his ghost haunts the corridors of New Scotland Yard. Held up a plastic knife and told him Jack the Ripper's ghost was so skilled he could slice open his stomach with a toothpick, and then proceeded to writhe on the ground as though she were possessed. Tongue gone purple, the whole deal, really quite a good act, I was impressed. Give that Enfield poltergeist a run for its money." Lestrade shook his head at the memory. "Worked like a charm, though. Bastard admitted everything. Kept calling her Red Devil, which is funny because we'd been calling her that since she was born."

Family. It had a way of marring that which was perfect, Mycroft knew this well. He had a long standing judgement against his own parents for his and Sherlock's strangely isolated upbringing, their inability to recognize their genius early on causing no end of social problems, especially for his younger brother. Mycroft had eventually learned to fake interest in other people's lives, a ruse that had served him well over the years, while Sherlock remained in a stasis of childish whim, see-sawing between wonderment and selfish want. But while the dramas of another's personal life usually held little interest for Mycroft, he found he was keenly starving for information on anything to do with Lestrade's past and present history, his need to know everything about his lover right down to his molecules a necessity he couldn't avoid. These sisters of his were going to be hard to win over, he already understood this, as surveillance of them by Anthea had proved. They were divided and unified all at the same time, with Gregory always in the periphery of their influence, like a satellite only occasionally brought into the nucleus and then spat out when it didn't entirely coincide with their needs. The eldest, Betty, with her many children, was the family unifier, organizing social events that Gregory was expected to attend regardless of his own schedule, and he would receive heavy reprimands if he didn't make sure he was in attendance. Jeanette was the nursemaid, always concerned about her brother's health, constantly sending him strange vegan inspired cure-alls for cancers and headaches from dubious news sources posted on his Facebook and in his messages. She dumped off vitamins and cases of kale crackers at his office in New Scotland Yard, earning Lestrade the nickname 'Spinach' from some of the more junior officers, and definitely behind his back.

The third and youngest one, Sharon Lestrade, remained a mystery, though she was a bit of a dark horse, always putting a nasty little jab into the other two sister's expectations. Her relationship with Gregory was exasperated understanding on his part. "She's not *actually* evil" he had messaged his two older sisters, a cryptic reminder to them that gave Mycroft pause. From what Anthea had learned, Sharon Lestrade was a grief counsellor. She had excellent reviews, and was considered by her patients to be a balm against the most despairing time of their lives. "Quiet, and empathetic. I just wanted to tell her everything. No judgement. Helped me deal with the death of my dog in ways that no one else could." The latest online review. Mycroft had no idea how to interpret it.

Of all of them, this sister was the one who sent a stab of fear through Mycroft for she was an expert on that thing he so fervently kept as far from himself as possible. The dreaded *sentiment*. Sharon Lestrade made a living dealing with it, day after day. With these new feelings, ghastly thing though it was to have them, she would have plenty of ammunition to attack him, and he would have no clue how to defend himself.

He would have to keep her influence over his and Gregory's relationship a distance that was a galaxy wide in scope.

"Are you two going to slack in that bedroom forever, sucking face and proclaiming love and being sickeningly saccharine in your affections for one another, or are you going to get in here and talk about Adam Raki! You know, that fellow who is set to send the stars into explosive supernovas and get our lovely Earth swallowed up into a black hole?"

Mycroft placed his hands over Lestrade's, giving him a concerned look as he turned to face him. "Your sisters are worse than this?"

Lestrade chuckled. "By miles and miles, love," he said, lightly kissing his cheek.

~*~  
Sherlock was busy with his laptop, his eyes, the same silver hue as his brother's, shimmering with excitement as he brought up the wave program he had shown Mycroft nearly two weeks ago. His long fingers were clicking along the side of his head as he brought the configuration of wave patterns over top of each other and then separated them into two, discernable blocks. "It's all so obvious! Why couldn't I *see* it!" Sherlock grinned, the pale blue glow from his laptop bathing his pale skin, giving him a ghostlike sheen. "Adam Raki has definitely been developing a space program, its purpose not one I can define--yet. But he's hidden it, and in quite an ingenious way." Sherlock pointed to the wave patterns on the screen. "He's embedded it in the satellite systems."

Mycroft raised a brow at this, internal boxes checking off at an alarming rate, confirming Sherlock's diagnosis. "You've been able to identify the program? There is a copy of it?"

"No, I can't get in that far, but I can definitely find the interference." Sherlock clicked through keys, calling up binary numbers that descended into a circular pattern. John stood behind him, his thumb chewed in wonder at Sherlock's incredible analytical skills. Lestrade seemed to find the whole thing boring, and Mycroft watched him from the corner of his eye wandering through the chaotic kitchen/science experiment laboratory, the tips of his fingers alighting on beakers and frowning over their disturbing contents.

"Adam Raki has been working on satellite systems for Mount Wilson Observatory, and it gave him the perfect opportunity to tweak the programs for his own purposes. Like I showed you, Mycroft, he's running his own program underneath the program he developed for the Observatory, in exactly the same way I manipulated the wave patterns in Mary's iPod."

"Wait, you did what?" John said, suddenly snapping into concern.

"It was to educate the baby, John, the last thing you want is some empty, squawking larvae without a thought in its head. I just did what needed to be done. Now about this space program..."

"What do you mean 'educate' the baby? What did you do to Mary's iPod?" Incensed John pulled out his cell phone and began frantically hitting numbers. "Mary?" he said, in a panic when she answered the call. "Get rid of your iPod. I can't get into any details right now...Yes, it's Sherlock related. No, it's not going to blow up in your ear or anything like that it's...He's tampered with it." John nodded at the sudden expletives shouted into his ear, and John handed the phone to Sherlock with closed eyes. "She's angry. She wants to talk to you."

"Not now, John, I'm busy saving the universe," Sherlock said.

Lestrade scoffed at this from the kitchen. "Adam Raki is not a threat to anyone." He made a disgusted noise. "Are these human fingers in this jar? Are you seriously pickling body parts?" He unscrewed the cap and took a sniff, reeling back at the vile stench of the jar's contents. "Well I can tell you right now you're doing it all wrong, Jeffrey Dahmer used much less sugar."

Mycroft shuddered at the very thought. "My dear Gregory, how do you even know that?"

Sherlock made a choked, sneering sound at this. "My dear Geoffrey..." he said, in a sing-song voice that grated on Mycroft's last nerve. "Oh, just do it, Mycroft. Hold his hand and skip down the centre of Regent's Park, pack a picnic while you're at it! And just so you know, it's not that it's Gerald that makes this all so disturbing (though I do believe I've expressed to you, Inspector, you *can* do better), it's your insipid, *pedestrian* affection, all Mills & Boon swooning and fluttering, buttery hearts. Sweet as a can of treacle and the after affects are like drinking shot after shot of the stuff. I can feel my pancreas drowning in your mutual sugar, the organ is *actually* dying!"

Mycroft was fed up with Sherlock's ridiculous dramatics. "I can give you a fatal dose of insulin to cure you!" he snapped.

Sherlock laughed at this. "Oh dear me, John, listen to my brother, offering threats! Have you ever seen that icy, stagnant pond so impassioned? Stand back, John, the world headlines will be reeling from this one--The British government is in *love*!"

John must have seen Mycroft's white knuckled fists at this, the tension in the slight man's body wired so tight he was ready to snap and attack Sherlock at any moment. He bid Mary a hasty good-bye and hung up the cell phone, making sure he stood closer to Mycroft, arms crossed, his posture one of easy calm. "Keep in mind that these words are coming from a man who tried to manipulate the intellectual development of a foetus. Using an iPod."

"He's right, you know. Sherlock is an ass," a nonplussed Lestrade said, and he nodded at the door, bidding Mycroft to follow him out. "Can't be bothered wasting time here, best we get going, yeah? We'll swing by the Yard first, so I can pick up my car. I got a bed at home looking for me to drop dead in it." He gave Sherlock's twisted expression a bland one of his own. "No treacle involved. Well...Not until after a good eight hours, anyway."

Mycroft was more than happy to leave. He would give Anthea word that all of Mount Wilson Observatory's satellite systems were to have their programming gone over by their IT forensics specialists, and they were to look for any coding hiding beneath the programs developed by Adam Raki. It was possible they would be able to reconfigure it, and thus properly disrupt it. The process would tricky, since he doubted Adam Raki would have put such a program in without a viral trojan in place to protect it.

Lestrade was already out the door, when Mrs. Hudson held Mycroft back, her flustered speech accentuated by her rosy cheeks. "Mr. Holmes, I almost forgot! The was dropped off for you earlier, by a lovely young woman. Not your assistant, I'd know her anywhere, though she has the same dark hair."

Mycroft frowned, taking the slender, pink envelope from Mrs. Hudson's shaky grip, its contents strangely bulky. Heedless of Mrs. Hudson's prying eyes, he opened the envelope and took out a small, folded card made of expensive linen card stock.

"She was quite a strange girl, really. Didn't say a word. Just dropped this off and pointed at a picture of you in the paper, almost didn't recognize you, it was so blurry. Looked like an old article, but Inspector Lestrade was in the forefront, it had to do with that grisly murder of that heroin dealer in Hackney a while back."

Mycroft frowned as he read what was printed on the card. "Thinking of you." The inside was blank.

The pink envelope, however, held pieces of a broken razor blade. Mycroft knocked them into his gloved palm, puzzled by them. He had no idea what the significance was supposed to represent, and it unsettled him greatly.

"She merely pointed at a picture of me?"

"From a news clipping, yes. Very odd girl. Gave me the heebie jeebies." Mrs. Hudson visibly shuddered. "You know, it's just the strangest thing. When I think on her, I can't help but see a resemblance to Inspector Lestrade. Not so angry looking, though. More like calm determination, if you understand what I'm saying."

Mycroft felt his mouth go dry. He placed the card and the shards of the razor blade back into the pink envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of his woollen coat. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She gave him a warm smile. "I think it's lovely that you and Inspector Lestrade get along so well. He's a good man, his heart's in the right place. It's not his fault it keeps getting battered about. I hope there's someone out there looking out for it."

And with that odd little additional warning, Mrs. Hudson bid him good-bye and left Mycroft rather puzzled on the sidewalk outside of 221B. He was shouted at by Lestrade, who was already in the commissioned car, the door left open for Mycroft. Anthea was no longer in the back seat. He sank into it, still frowning.

"Gregory, I have received the strangest..."

But his news was halted by Lestrade's hot mouth on his own, his searching tongue aggressively piercing him down to the very tips of his toes, and all thoughts of Sherlock, space programs and thinly veiled cryptic threats dissolved against Lestrade's bruising lips.  
  
~*~

Of course, the quick trip to the Yard took up more time than Gregory had expected, and Mycroft had been content to wait in his office, going over paperwork with him, and assisting where he could. He had a renewed appreciation for the hard work Lestrade put in day after day, a grunt level miasma of suffering that most men would crumble beneath. Mycroft found himself fascinated with the level of detail Gregory had given to the various suspect's connections, family and otherwise, their personal lives blending in with crime histories and long progressions of tragedies and drug use and murder, each person a giant puzzle of cause and effect. Gregory's investigations did not shy away from personal anecdotal evidence, he was not a surface dweller upon the issues that crossed his desk every day, ties to poverty and mental illness both victims and perpetrators suffered as intricately interwoven into his reports as smoothly as any article published in an academic medical journal. In short, Mycroft was impressed.

"Donovan has to start holding back her anger when she's drawing up these reports," Lestrade said, shaking his head over the latest clump of papers in front of him. "She's putting too much of herself in here, calling them wankers right in the first sentence. I've told her time and again, she can make a note in the margins on copies, but this ain't gonna fly in court when it's sitting there right in her handwriting in the middle of the bloody page." Gregory loudly groaned and tossed the papers away from him, his neck cracking as he leaned back, large hands massaging his throat. "What bloody time is it? You got to be kidding me, we've been here six hours? Bloody hell. For God's sake, Mycroft, let's get the hell out of here and go home."

There was no better music made in the world than those words uttered from Gregory's grimacing lips. He watched intently as Gregory slid on his grey wool coat, a replacement to the torn one that the fight with Nigel Ibenescu had ruined, and a gift from Mycroft. What he truly wanted to do was slide in beneath it as Gregory wore it, sharing its warmth along with the heat from the inspector's body, to be tucked in like a treat in his pocket. Despite all of his brother's miserable warnings against that most dreaded of sentiments, Mycroft was heedless in his want. He wanted that bed. He wanted Lestrade's strong arms over him.

Scribbling notes madly written in messy, near unreadable scrawls on parchment: " _Point numero UNO on this list: You want to go *home*_."

Oh. So there it was. In plain sight, black on sepia, the paper curling at the edges, his heart being deftly drawn beneath it in all its tubes and chambers and muscles, all smudged and improperly labelled. Though the parchment and its medically annotated diagrams of his quickly pumping organ was doing all it could to explain it to him, he still didn't quite understand. He chewed his bottom lip as though it were written in Cyrillic code of the most complex order. What did this all this mad scribbling in his head mean?

"You're awfully quiet," Lestrade said as they approached his car, the engine roaring to life with a press of the button on his key. "I hope you're thinking again about how right I am. Adam Raki is no threat to the free world, he's just a scared little thing who likes looking at space. If he's done something, it was never out of malicious intent, that's bloody obvious." He slid into the driver's seat and Mycroft automatically got into the passenger side, the confines of the car and Gregory's close proximity overwhelming him with unspoken words he had no idea how to form. "I'm just glad all that other business is over with, at least for now. The order of the next few days is this: Head home and sleep. And sleep some more. I hope you're keen on being a homebody for the next forty-eight hours because all of London could be crumbling to dust and I'm refusing to answer all calls. That's to go for you, too, you can't have a proper perspective without rest. It'll be nice, yeah?"

Gregory grinned at him, his rugged face unbearably handsome as the streetlights slid over him, the Mercedes smoothly heading past the tired streets of London as it dove onto the highway leading to the lazy suburban area he called home. "Two of us in bed, clothing very much optional, wine and tea and etcetera. Did you bring any of that Columbian coffee home? Ah, no matter, should use up Betty's crap, I guess."

And it hit him, scribbling all over the sepia page, black ink repeating over and over in tangled, messy loops over top of the detailed diagram of the heart, over top of his doubts and his list of possibilities as to what these sensations rising ever so violently within his chest were, and it was so obvious, so very, very unlikely and yet so determinedly true.

_I love you_ , the pen scratched, over and over, running out of space, superimposing itself over the sepia page until it was squiggling lines of black.   _I love you, I love you...._

"I love you," Mycroft breathed.

The sudden silence in the car made him instantly panic. He'd said the wrong thing, this was absolutely wrong, he had ruined this, the whole caring nonsense had reared its terrible head and he was going to go mad, he really was, because Gregory wasn't saying anything, he was just sitting there, struggling for words, trying to let him down easy, trying to put a brake on the pulsating, monstrous *feeling* that kept threatening to crush Mycroft into the tiniest crystals, leaving him as so much dust.

"I..." Gregory's hand shook on the steering wheel, just a little, Mycroft could see it. He was going to say no this wasn't going to work, he was going to shoot down this terrible stupidity once and for all, he was...

"I love you, too."

How is it a man so carefully bound, with all of his hidden safeguards well in place, how is it such an Iceman as Mycroft Holmes could be so completely undone and shattered by a quad of single syllable words? He couldn't breathe, his heart was climbing right out of his mouth, wanting to be devoured by his beloved Gregory. He did love him. He loved him. He loved him, loved him, loved him.

"You all right?" Gregory turned down the exit leading to the quiet street that housed his condo. Their condo. Their home. "You look like you're about to have a seizure or something."

Mycroft unbuckled his seatbelt and leapt forward, causing Gregory to swerve in the lane. "I want you Gregory!"

"What the hell are you doing??"

"I can't wait. I have to have you *now*!" Fumbling, shaking fingers dove at the buttons on Lestrade's shirt, too tremulous to properly work. He gave up and began tearing at his belt buckle, working the leather from its fastening.

"I'm fucking driving!"

Mycroft couldn't figure out why that would be an issue, a tiny nag somewhere in the distance where his reason was currently residing tried to warn him. Something about the rules of traffic and that sometimes it wasn't that great an idea to be doing two things at once.  But all that was hammering within Mycroft's consciousness was how much he wanted to express just exactly how much this man meant to him. His skin and his soul wanted so very much to be melded into Gregory's passion, the feelings so explosive he was about ready to weep from them. Every bone in him sang in want, every touch made him shiver. Now that he had finally allowed passion to have its sway, it overwhelmed it to the point he could no longer see, the dimension he was currently residing in one of tortuous need.  His Gregory had to understand the glory of his presence within his life, the fervent, miraculous thawing of his heart that he had long believed was nothing more than a black maw between the wheezing, abused lungs caged beneath his ribs.  Hearts were literal things, they pumped and one could see them, and they could fail and die, but there were other versions, Mycroft was quickly learning, and the one hiding there beneath the shadow of the real one was beating a different solo, one attuned solely to Gregory Lestrade.  Was this what propelled the great artists of the centuries, love so profound and over arching he would tear pieces of himself off to indulge his object?  There's no ice, but only rivers and all dams were opened.  Trembling, blind ferocity, that was what he was made of now.  He undid Gregory's belt buckle and dove his hand in, massaging the unmistakable hard length of desire waiting there and then, his mouth watering, hungry enough to make his expressive want known, Mycroft dove down.

He moaned into the pleasure of Gregory's musky scent, tongue eagerly tasting. He could hear his lover's curses, his thighs quaking beneath Mycroft's cheek, hands unsure if they were supposed to be on the steering wheel or the back of Mycroft's neck, pushing him down to go deeper. He made a point to swallow him and let Gregory know where he stood on that particular issue.

"Oh fuck. Fuck, Mycroft! I can't..."

The wheels of the Mercedes screamed against the asphalt leading into the underground parking lot, and though Gregory Lestrade has proven himself to be a very skilled driver, there are some distractions that no amount of defensive driving can cure. Mycroft released him, his panting mouth still moaning along the length of Lestrade's hard cock, so lost in erotic sensation he barely felt it when Lestrade lost control of the car and careened into the yellow striped barrier, smashing the hood.

The car continued its descent, bouncing across the metal teeth barrier at the base of the parking lot, preventing entry to anyone who wasn't a resident of the condominium, the chunks of steel puncturing the tires.  A thick layer of ice kept them sliding downwards, into the parking lot, Lestrade's hands wild on the steering wheel as he struggled against the car's wish to careen back and forth until, finally, it smashed into the side of the parked truck that always took two spaces.

The air bags deployed, pinning Mycroft against Lestrade's crotch and nearly smothering him. It took an effort to extricate himself and when he did he found himself dishevelled and wrecked as much as the car, a salty film descending down his throat. He glanced beside him to see Gregory staring out the front windshield, the crumpled state of his car a mystery he hadn't quite been able to process yet.

It was very quiet in the Mercedes, especially after Gregory turned off the engine and silenced the horn.

A rain of tools from the back of the truck pinged onto the roof of the car.  A thick shower of metal that echoed throughout the parking lot.  A plethora of hammers and wrenches slid down the broken windshield, decorating the steaming, crushed hood.

Then silence.

Again.

'You okay?" Gregory asked.

Mycroft nodded. "A-Are you?"

Gregory drummed his fingers on the bent steering wheel. "Think so."

More quiet.

"Probably should call the tow truck."

"Yes," Mycroft quickly agreed, taking out his cell phone.

"Gonna be a while now before we get to bed."

"I imagine."

"I think this is a lesson in patience, yeah?"

Mycroft wouldn't look at Greg as he sent a message to Anthea, requesting she send along a tow truck to discreetly take away Greg's Mercedes as quickly as possible. "M-Maybe."

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You should have seen this one coming. Meet the family, Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. There be smut here. Should I be warning you? You're reading Mystrade, why am I warning you???

IT'S THE SIMPLE THINGS  
chapter eight

"It's my fault the car was wrecked, it's only right that I replace it." Mycroft lay curled in bed beside Lestrade, his head resting on the inspector's bare shoulder. Their bodies were sticky with the remnants of passionate lovemaking, and while Lestrade was definitely still humming along on the periphery of a shockingly good orgasm, sleep was what wanted to capture him most. Mycroft's long body was pale in the darkness of the bedroom, streams of light hitting the ceiling as cars zoomed past on the nearby highway. Though the thick traffic was in close proximity, this part of London was as quiet as one could get in the bustling city, the location one that would eventually descend into suburban slum, but Lestrade was content to enjoy the puffy trees that lined the streets and the complete lack of convenience. He'd chosen this condominium because of how far it was from central London, making all of its problems difficult to commute into and giving his life a much needed sense of separation from the one he lived at New Scotland Yard. He wondered if Mycroft appreciated the line he'd drawn between Out There, and Home. He supposed the fact Mycroft was in his bed right now was evidence enough. His arm was tucked under Mycroft's shoulders, fingers lazily drawing circles on the rounded socket, connecting dots of freckles that lined his upper arms.

He was trying to figure it out, and when it came to Mycroft, Sherlock was right in calling Lestrade slow to understand, because for the life of him he couldn't suss how the man could go from icy numbness to nuclear explosion with no lead up in between. Most people gave you ample warming they were firing up, even Sherlock had this habit, pacing and snapping fingers and talking faster and faster until the words blended together into gibberish. Of course, in Sherlock's case that was a sure sign he'd been dipping back into his old, unsavoury habits and was tweaking like he'd taken the contents of a pharmacy. Lestrade dealt with enough addicts to see the signs from miles away. Mycroft, however, had no such vices. The mood swings were entirely psychological and though he didn't want to dive into his own vast knowledge on the subject, Lestrade couldn't help but see little nags of warning flags lightly snapping in the breeze of his mind's worry. _'He's got an anxiety disorder. Doesn't allow himself to feel emotion because he's afraid of losing control. Has become comfortable enough with you to let it slip. You can't break this man's heart, Gregory Lestrade. It will kill him."_

This wasn't pure conjecture, Gregory knew he was on to something, even if his reasoning about it wasn't perfect. Mycroft's reactions to what were usually routine emotions was abnormal. The weirdest part was how once the passion was overtly expressed it descended abruptly into passive uncertainty. Like this evening, after nearly killing him with a blow job, thank you very much, once they were inside the condo a sudden shyness overtook Mycroft, clothes peeled with self conscious slowness, eyes averted from Lestrade's appreciative gaze as though worried he was going to find fault. It wasn't until they were in bed that Mycroft would sigh and relax, body pooling into liquid as Lestrade kissed him, mouth teasing along his hip, into the dip at his groin, his nose nuzzling into the slightly red tinged patch of hair surrounding his hard cock and breathing in the clean, soap tinted scent of him.

The sight was gorgeous as Mycroft lay on his back on the bed, atop the bedcovers, body splayed out and anxious for Gregory's touch, like some swooning Victorian guiltily taking great pleasure in sex. Lestrade had no shyness in the bedroom, and he nudged his own confidence along, teasing Mycroft's body into a submission that left him whimpering into Gregory's pillow.

God, he loved it when he made those sounds, the gasps and little cries and his quickening breath, eyes snapping open in shock, hips grinding in expectation. Getting off was great, but damn, teasing Mycroft Holmes was bloody fantastic.

He'd done well by him tonight, taking his time, teasing the tip of Mycroft's cock with suckling attention and swirls of his tongue, ignoring the needful thrust of hips and Mycroft's pleading groans. He'd kept it up, just that little tease at the very top of that smooth, salty flesh, loving the way Mycroft's limbs writhed in abandon, his back arched as Lestrade refused to give him relief. Just the tip, that was the tease and it was divine. A spiral of hot tongue around and around, just a little bit of pressure, just a hum around it. Damn, Mycroft was gorgeous when he begged, hands shaking and grabbing the corners of his pillow with a white knuckled grip,

_"Please....Please...Gregory...."_

_"Please..."_

His heels dug in, his whole body wracked in orgasm as he moaned loudly into it, ropes of semen spilling across his chest. Lestrade crawled overtop of him then, using it to slick his own cock, and taking Mycroft's over sensitized and spent sex in hand along with his own, he held tight and pumped them both together. Mycroft shouted in pained, over stimulated ecstasy as his body tensed and shook, earning no mercy until Gregory pulled him into a tight embrace, kissing Mycroft's grimacing, thin lips as he came, tongue diving deep, Mycroft's hands tugging hard into the short strands of Lestrade's silver hair.

Trembling along an aching afterglow, it would take a good fifteen minutes before Mycroft could properly speak again. His voice would whisper its way through Gregory's half formed dreams, tying them tightly together. "I love you, Gregory." He buried his face in Lestrade's neck, breathing him in with deep, resigned sighs. "This was never supposed to happen. I've lost my mind."

"Yeah, well, I love you too, you mad thing."

"The car..."

"Never mind the damned car."

He was still talking about it, babbling now about getting a BMW, maybe in a nice slate grey, would he like that? It didn't matter. He just wanted Mycroft warm and in his bed, just like this, and he wanted his adrenaline fuelled chattiness to descend into the comfort of Lestrade's arms, his pale skin gentled until he fell asleep.

He kissed Mycroft mid sentence, forcing silence with a slip of his tongue, stealing and swallowing all the nervous words. "Go to sleep," Lestrade mumbled against his lips.

"I don't want this to ever end," Mycroft confessed.

"It won't," Lestrade assured him.

He held him closer. Damn, but how could a man's body feel this bloody *soft*? Lestrade went through the list, the evidence outlined even as he lay in bed, an occupational hazard. Mycroft had a desk job, never walked when he could get a drive, never stood when he could comfortably sit. He suffered regular weight gain which he would lose mostly to unhealthy dieting and not excessive exercise. He'd seen Mycroft's treadmill regime, a once a week excursion when he noticed the small spread of his stomach, and worry would send him scurrying to exercise with a light trot on the treadmill that barely broke a sweat. Lestrade had already seen evidence in the fridge of Mycroft's secretive sweet tooth, and lately Lestrade himself was a perpetrator, regularly indulging him with pastries from Maison Bertaux. Inactivity and epicurean habits, these things made Mycroft's body as supple and tender as veal. Lestrade grinned as he wrapped his arms around him, pulling him even closer, pliant flesh malleable as he sighed in sleepy happiness. Mycroft's boneless body was delightful.

Sleep still eluded him, his heart constantly repeating that they'd confessed to each other. Lestrade wasn't yet sure what to do with that crumpled boundary and though Mycroft was putting up a good front, stoic reason in place, Lestrade knew he was scared out of his wits. How couldn't he be? He sank under the covers, the white duvet tucked under his nose as he thought on it. There was so much of Mycroft that remained a mystery, and Greg was getting impatient with the length of that list. For one, he didn't have a family history to speak of, there was no mention of his parents or where he grew up or what being around an infant Sherlock must have been like. He supposed these were details that would gradually appear over time, but it irked him that Mycroft had the life of his lover laid out in black and white ink before him in some secret M16 file, every quirk and strangeness and tragedy already catalogued, risks and benefits dutifully checked and rechecked. DCI Gregory Lestrade had somehow passed the screening process, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out how, it wasn't like he'd always made the best choices. His relationships were a mess, strings of lovers and occasional one night stands, and he'd clung to selfish people, always surprised when they took him for everything he had. He'd had enough experience to know that what he had right now was very different from his usual and he had to treat it with the respect it deserved. They were both vulnerable, now. They said the fucking 'L' word and all, no going back from that.

It's not that he didn't think Mycroft was sincere, every instinct in Lestrade told him that he was. He knew the man hadn't had a lot of experience when it came to the romance department, his erotic buttons oversensitive, with all the energy and passion, and recalcitrance, of a virgin.

Then, like a punch in the gut, it hit him. No, Mycroft Holmes, pseudo-double-oh-seven desk jockey spy extraordinaire, ready to topple kingdoms with the dip of a pen, had never been a playboy, had never had strings of lovers or the confused embarrassment of a one night stand. He'd had a fumbling heartbreak with some creep professor in university and that was where it all ended, until this point.

Bloody hell. Mycroft was navigating brand new territory, no map to speak of, no way to figure out where he was supposed to go and only had the atrophied remainder of feelings to run on, forcing it out of his heart for Lestrade's sake. Oh he had him now, there was no mistake, Mycroft Holmes owned Gregory Lestrade body and soul, because it wasn't every day a person wouldn't be content enough to lay down their life for another, it took a special kind of person to sacrifice all sense of *sanity* too.

He watched Mycroft as he slept, contented and near purring in sleep, soft sighs escaping thin lips that were slack and relaxed, not stretched tight in his usual grimace as though interaction with the world actually caused him pain. Lestrade wondered if there was something to that, if maybe Mycroft had some similarities there with Adam Raki, who, according to Nigel, had been a bloody tease from day one, full of incredible knowledge but unable to interact beyond it. If he went by what Nigel had told him, Mycroft was equally reserved and skittish. The difference, of course, was that Adam Raki was a man who was so overwhelmed by the information the universe hit him with he'd had to wrap himself tightly up in facts to preserve his psyche. Mycroft was perfectly capable of compartmentalization, to the point of employing a persona to hide all those uncomfortable, violent emotions that threatened to seep out at inopportune moments.

Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman.

A heart made of ice was a brittle thing, Lestrade knew, frowning as he pictured it, this pumping chamber of thin glass and hot running blood steaming out from its arteries. He rolled on his side and kissed Mycroft's sighing lips, tasting the soft smile that met him, Mycroft's dreams easy and free of all conflict. _"This is what I do,"_ Lestrade thought, petting Mycroft's thinning hair and smoothing it back with his fingers. _"I make it easier for him to live."_

Lestrade wasn't sure if that was the bargain he himself was getting out of this, but it didn't matter. They'd learn about each other in time. If Mycroft had secrets that he wanted kept hidden, that was okay, for now. He wasn't a fool, Lestrade knew a man couldn't be in the position of 'Director' as Mycroft was and not have blood on his hands. He'd watched his enemies during their intimate moments. He'd also witnessed their executions. Just as Lestrade had made peace with the weeping murderers and regretful thieves that crossed his path and turned his empathy grey, so he would afford Mycroft that courtesy. There were no doubt frightening monstrosities happening deep in the caverns that housed the dark maw of M16 and Mycroft knew all about them. He didn't need psychology 101 to know the lurking madness of his unexpected, sudden emotional outbursts was a symptom of residual guilt. In Gregory Lestrade's arms, Mycroft Holmes could finally sleep easy. Lestrade was looking forward to the day he could say the same for himself.

~*~

His body felt stiff and languid, and though it was an effort he didn't want to make, Mycroft stretched and yawned into the morning, careful not to awaken the snoring, handsome man at his side. He was pressed against Lestrade's back, his nude form pink from warmth, the blush too irresistible for Mycroft not to indulge. He lightly kissed Lestrade's back, lips alighting on the tight knots of his spine at his waist, careful not to wake him. The large tattoo of a Japanese wave curled around Lestrade's waist, blue and black inks in various shades turning his flesh into a work of art. He lightly nosed a ripple of dark blue water near Lestrade's right buttock and was surprised to find raised flesh there. Curious, he dared to trace the line, followed by another above it, and still more, Mycroft's featherweight touch tracing along the criss-crossed lines of raised flesh that went from Lestrade's hip all the way up to his chest. Scars. The wave tattoo was meant to hide them.

Mycroft pulled his hand away as though burned, the question of where these came from one that would have to wait for some future point in their relationship. It didn't take much to hazard a guess, of course, Lestrade's upbringing had been far from ideal, and with an alcoholic father who had driven away all of his children through abusive outbursts, he was sure these were welts from a particularly vicious beating from a belt. Maybe more than one.

A massive wave of protective anger rose through Mycroft and he nuzzled the back of Lestrade's neck and nibbled at the lobe of his ear before tucking the covers back around him and sliding out of their bed. There was no record of the elder Lestrade's death. Perhaps there should be.

He snatched up the fluffy, white oversized robe that Lestrade preferred and wrapped its warm softness tightly around him, cinching it closed and breathing in the remnants of Lestrade's scent that still lingered in the fuzzy fabric. Yawning, he left the bedroom and trudged half asleep into the kitchen, remembering too late that all that was left to greet the morning was ghastly flavoured coffee. He opened the cupboard and began rummaging, hoping to find at least one selection of roasted beans that didn't taste like Christmas.

He stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the darkened dining room table just off from it, wondering why a little girl with a halo of frizzy red hair and a mask of freckles across the bridge of her nose was seated there. Crime scene photos were spread wide before her, and she tapped her fingers along the edges, transfixed in fascination at the bloody images of brutally murdered heroin dealers in the Hackney area.

Ah, he was still asleep. Dreaming, then. How quaint, his subconscious had called up an image of Lestrade's niece. Tiffany. Studious, frumpy little thing, far more Sherlock than he would like, that's for certain.

"Oh lovely, you're up, then! Is Greg coming out for breakfast? We've been sitting here a good hour, you'd think he'd get wind his sisters are here--not that he's ever been that observant, mind, not when he's in his bed having a good coma. Why isn't he using that good coffee I bought him? I bought that stuff three years ago for Christmas, for God's sake, it's got dust on it!"

Mycroft stood rooted in the kitchen, trying to process exactly what was happening. His inner parchment was slow to scribble it out, as though his own list making subconscious app was annoyed with his stupidity. In simple language, the list read:

_1--You are in DCI Gregory Lestrade's kitchen, who shagged you senseless last night, despite the fact you'd destroyed his car while giving him a blow job while he was driving, oh and by the way, that's his bathrobe you're wearing, you're nude underneath, and you're literally flaking with evidence of sex in front of his SISTER and his NIECE._

_2--Your powers of observation have become systematically muted in the presence of Lestrade. Namely the fact yet another sister has just come in the front door and is balancing a wailing baby on her hip. If you weren't so distracted by your mortification you would have noticed this. You also would have noticed that they are now staring at you with an odd look that's a weird mixture of pity and judgement. You're not sure at all what to make of it._

"You must be Greg's new fella, yeah?"

The eldest sister. Betty Lestrade, that was her name, she pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and flicked on the single light above it, bathing the small space in eerie shadows that had all the comfort of an interrogation room. She bid Mycroft to sit beside her daughter, while the second eldest sister, the one he knew was named Jeanette, sat across from him, wailing baby still fussing.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said, by way of introduction, but they both ignored him as he sat down, and didn't introduce themselves.

"I keep telling you to put nettle oil in his milk, it'll settle his stomach," Jeannette complained as she continued to bounce the wailing baby, and Betty rolled her eyes.

"He's just mad because he wants the stroller, loves sitting in it getting driven around." She gave her daughter a nod as though to shoo her away. "Tiffany, lovey, put Raymond in the stroller, he's being a real fusspot. Why don't you take him and all that murder business in the living room, so the grown ups can have a proper a discussion here."

Mycroft wanted to make a point that it was highly inappropriate and probably illegal to be allowing her young daughter to peruse murder investigation reports as though they were idle entertainment, but as it was two against one at present, and this was his first time meeting Gregory's sisters, he wisely kept his mouth shut. Ten year old Tiffany sighed as though terribly put upon, and slapped the photos back into the file box, the whole collection tucked under her arm as she slid off the wooden chair and hauled all the methodology of murder off into the living room, where it was usually investigated by her uncle. "It would be a lot easier if he'd just send me the .pdf files like I keep asking," Tiffany complained. She made a face at her mother, who was putting the wailing baby back in the stroller, the action doing little to soothe him. "'Ethics' this and 'against the law' that and 'get a science kit like other kids your age'."

"He'd better not be thinking that's something to get for your birthday!" Betty exclaimed, her finger out and shaking at the very idea. "Always leaving them all over the floor, you are, I cut my damned heels enough on them cracked slides!"

Betty was a rotund woman, matronly with long, thick blonde hair that she poured out of a bottle and got a friend to improperly put streaks of contrasting colour in. She had tired, deep set eyes surrounded in wrinkles and leaking smudged eye liner, her foundation make-up put on inexpertly and the wrong colour for her complexion, giving her a sandy skin tone that was supposed to look tanned but made her look like a beige wall. She wore a pink hoodie that was a size too tight and matching track pants, the square of a packet of cigarettes easily visible through the pocket. She had a rough, council flat countenance, and Mycroft was sure he didn't like her, but he was destined to endure her. Her sister, Jeanette, wasn't much better, a rail thin creature with a hungry meanness to her that was expressed in the hawk like once over she gave him, her thin black sweater rolled up to her elbows, and the dark flowered print of her dress doing little to give the illusion of delicate femininity. Her shoulders stooped towards him, a vulture's posture. She scowled at Mycroft, spindly arms crossed over her flat chest. "Sallow. You need to be upping your vitamin E. Bit of a gut issue there, too, you like the sweets too much, you got to cut out the sugar. Replace it with stevia and beetroot juice, put it in your coffee. Date, bran and prune muffins, that'll cure your sugar cravings."

The though of putting beetroot juice into his coffee made Mycroft's stomach flip in disgusted confusion. He glanced towards the half open bedroom door, hoping for some reprieve from Gregory. The steady snores leaving the bedroom told him it wasn't coming.

"He can sleep through Armageddon, that one," Betty snorted. She nodded at her sister. "Think I heard the kettle go off, might as well get some tea on."

Jeanette, never ceasing her glaring assessment of Mycroft and keeping her arms crossed in confrontation, left her seat to tend to tea. Betty gave Mycroft a smile that was probably warm in other circumstances, but in this case was meant to unsettle him. Which it did. The baby was still fussing in the stroller behind her in the living room and she ignored its wails as she kept her attention riveted on Mycroft.

"So you're the latest." She gave him a half smile, waiting for his response. He merely nodded and kept glancing back at the bedroom door. " _Gregory, bloody hell, come and save me!"_

"Just a couple of weeks I've been told and here you are, all moved in already. Sharon says you been coming and going, don't have no place of your own, got your own key and all. Must be nice, having someone being so generous." She continued to smile and Mycroft discovered he really didn't like that one bit. "It's always good to have someone watching over you, taking your interests to heart. Like we been doing with our dear brother over the years. He had a real hard go of it, you know, our shit brick of a father used to beat the holy hell out of him when he was just Tiffany's age. Had to take him in when he was in his teens, me barely able to look after a couple of kids and myself. But he did all right, he's a smart one, and he knew how to rise above the muck, our Greg did, even if he was a bit of trouble for a while there and almost ended up in the juvie, that much to be expected, I suppose. He's got a good soul, he does, can't fault him for that, can you?" Betty chewed the corner of her bottom lip in a gesture that was highly reminiscent of her brother when he was picking at a point of interest in his suspect. "See, people who know what it's like to suffer, they either get real mean about everything or they get generous to a fault. You can guess where he is. Gets a bit taken advantage of on occasion. Most of the time, actually. Have to keep a real close eye on that, wouldn't want him to lose his shirt, or his condominium, here, or his car or everything he owns, really. Not a good thing to have happen. So we tend to check in, once in a while. Where you working? Sharon says you got nice threads. You a banker, then?"

"I..." Mycroft felt uncomfortable and overexposed beneath their scrutiny, the fact he was nude under Gregory's white housecoat accentuating the feeling. "I am merely a low level member of the British government."

"He's on the fucking dole!" Jeanette exclaimed behind him, near making him jump. "I fucking knew it!"

Mycroft couldn't help but laugh at the incredulity of this. "I assure you, I am not..."

Jeanette's arms were still crossed, her small, sharp features cutting and mean. "As if he couldn't scrape the bottom of the barrel enough with the last one! Greg can't blame his higher functioning, I've been slipping him ginkgo biloba in his coffee for months!"

Mycroft was fiercely offended. "I'm not unemployed!"

"Really?" Betty pursed her lips and nodded at this. Jeannette handed her a steaming cup of tea, which she cradled within her palms. "So what's the name of your manager, then?"

"I don't have a manager, and if I did I would not be able to disclose who they are."

"Where do you work? Where's your office?"

"I'm not at liberty to be open with that information."

"Where do you and your co-workers hang out after a long day? Must be a pub close to there."

"I don't 'hang' with my co-workers..."

"You're right, Jeannette, no job to speak of. Dresses and talks posh, old money from the family, probably living off its last dregs, has the airs but not the means. Get the papers out, he's signing them. Not having our brother taken advantage of by some homeless upper class twit, no we are not. How do you take your tea, love? No matter, Jeanette already added the St. John's Wart for your nervous disposition, isn't that right Jeannette?"

"And whole milk for calcium, though it's clear he needs supplements. Very poor bone density and an abnormally slow metabolism causing excessive lethargy. I suggest yoga balls to improve circulation."  
  
"That's bloody redundant, Jeannette, I'm sure he's getting balls enough from our dear brother."

Jeanette stood in front of him, snatching up her purse from under her chair and rummaging through it until she found a stack of papers and a pen. She clicked the pen open and near tossed the papers and pen at Mycroft, her long, witch-like finger pointing at the dotted line at the bottom of the page with her short unadorned nail. "Sign there."

Mycroft quickly read the document over and was aghast that it was, in fact, a prenuptial agreement that he was never to put his name on a mortgage with Gregory Lestrade, nor share a bank account, nor share custody of pets or children, nor share furnishings or clothing, no sharing of debts and certainly no sharing of any assets whatsoever, such as cars, investments and computer passwords.

"I can't sign this," Mycroft said, staring back at up at both of them in shock. "I don't have an issue with some of this, but, really, it's far too restrictive. If you are concerned I'm going to take Gregory for everything he has, I can assure you that is not at all my intention!"

Betty's smudged kohl eyes narrowed on him. "What's the part of this agreement that bothers you most?"

Mycroft pulled his housecoat closer around him, not at all liking the way the sisters were glaring down at him, seeking out a hidden clue that he was set to reveal, its meaning obscure. "I...I'm not comfortable with the whole thing, but especially not the section in regards to potential children. Though the event is unlikely, I can't just sign away my parental responsibility, and it's gauche of you to expect me to!"

Betty and Jeannette exchanged knowing looks between them. Nodding, Betty took the pen and papers from Mycroft's grip. "Sharon called it, we have to go with what she says. Looks like he's got some moral fibre in there somewhere, unlike the last lot."

Mycroft desperately wanted to know what the hell was going on, why was he being interrogated by these two harpies and why was he under accusation right from the beginning? He was a Holmes, not some homeless grifter wandering the streets of London who thought Gregory Lestrade, with his big brown eyes and strong arms and compassionate heart was an easy mark!

Oh. Right.

Gregory did lose his shirt the last time, and it really wasn't especially difficult to understand why his sisters were now so gun shy in light of this new, admittedly whirlwind, relationship. Still, they were quite off the mark in most respects and Mycroft couldn't help but feel insulted. His pique must have infected the condo, because he heard the stomp of Lestrade's feet and some muttered curses leave the confines of the bedroom, drawers being opened and slammed shut as he slid some clothes on before storming into the kitchen to confront his busybody sisters.

He was a delight to look at, all rumpled and red faced, eyes bleary with sleep, his striped flannel pyjamas hanging loose on his muscular frame. Mycroft had to fight the urge to leap from his seat and run to embrace him, shutting out the sharp eyes of his harpy sisters from damaging his happiness for one moment more.

"What in the hell are you two doing here?" Greg growled at them.

Betty set her jaw before sipping at her tea in defiance of her brother's anger. She was using Mycroft's blue mug. "Damage control. Don't look at us like that, Greg, Sharon warned you we were coming."

Greg frowned and looked at Mycroft, who stared back at him in confusion. "I..." Mycroft glanced back at the closet near the front door, where his coat was hanging. "Mrs. Hudson gave me an envelope, but it was very strange, there was nothing written in it except..."

Gregory Lestrade let out a shout of pure fury at this. "Oh for fuck's sake!" He clenched his fists as though ready to pummel an invisible foe, only to draw his anger back with considerable difficulty. "What was it? Dead sparrow, broken razor blade or bent spoon?"

Mycroft blinked at this. "A..broken razor blade?"

"For fuck's sake! Sharon's got a real nerve, My is not like that at all!" Lestrade paced his kitchen, his rage building up to dangerous levels, enough to force Mycroft out of his seat at the dining room table to properly escape the periphery of his wrath by slinking into the adjoining living room. Lestrade's red face and pulsing vein in his neck as he shouted was quite the morning tempest. "He's not fucking emo!"

Emo? What the devil did that mean?

The argument now included Jeannette, who was shouting that none of this would have happened had Greg simply taken the seaweed supplements she'd given him a month ago, that it was an excellent libido killer, and Greg shot back that if he wanted to drown himself in cock blocking kelp, there were better methods.

He felt a tug at the sleeve of the white housecoat and he looked down to see Greg's ten year old niece, Tiffany, staring up at him with limpid blue eyes peering out from a forest of freckles. "Emo means you are overly emotional. Auntie Sharon has a system. Every time Uncle Greg gets a new friend, she sends that friend a little gift. Dead sparrow for bloody psycho. Broken razor blades for emo. Bent spoon for drug addict. The last one got the spoon. Addicted to Adderall, stole my older brother Pence's prescription and snorted it on weekends."  
  
Mycroft sat on the sofa next to her, the fussing baby still complaining in the stroller where it was parked beside him. Since the trio of adults in the kitchen weren't going to be letting up on their conflict any time soon, Mycroft felt it was up to him to take over the infant's misery. He peered down at wriggling baby, wide eyes the shape of Greg's staring back at him in shock, lower lip trembling in fear. He felt a pang of empathy for the helpless larval human, and with an expertise he'd had since Sherlock's birth when he was seven years old, Mycroft lifted the baby out of the stroller and quickly checked to see if he was wet, and as this wasn't the case, he plucked out a bottle from the baby bag beneath the carriage, and warmed the milk in his palms before feeding him. From the desperate way he took to it, it was clear this had been the problem from the start, and Mycroft sat back on the sofa, infant happily cooing against his fluffy bathrobe, eyes softening into lazy bliss.

"You're very good with babies," Tiffany said, knocking a lock of curly red hair from her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. "That's unexpected."

"I had a baby brother too, once," he said to her, and smiled. "I was about your age when he came along. I didn't have any other brothers and sisters to help me with him, or to take over, and my mother was a professor of mathematics at Oxford. It often fell on me to take care of him, which I was eager to do." He didn't let on that he'd been a needy child, doing anything at all to help Mummy in an effort to earn at least some of her attention. Sherlock had stolen almost all of *that*.

"I don't like babies at all," Tiffany confessed. "My sister, Shelly, she's the second eldest and she's the one who goes all stupid for them. I don't know what's so great about having a baby, they're annoying and smelly and dumb." She glanced over Mycroft's arm, watching her little brother gurgle into sleep as he finished feeding. Mycroft placed the near empty bottle back in the dirty diaper bag and curled the infant against his shoulder, the tiny weight cuddling into his neck as he rubbed the infant's back. "I don't think I'll ever have one when I grow up. Too much trouble. Mum says you have kids and their problems never go away. Can't say I want to deal with that."

Mycroft thought on Sherlock, on the endless nights of worry when he'd gotten himself into a heap of trouble, either through drugs or his own over involvement in a dangerous case, his brilliant mind always random in its fire and perpetually close to burning out due to his recklessness. Sherlock had been a fussy, miserable baby, too, who was easy enough to please as long as he had ample attention. Mycroft sighed, realizing he was still shouldering his brother, his infantile outbursts no different from the ones over three decades ago.

"If that is how you feel, you are making a wise choice," Mycroft said. He nodded at the crime scene photos spread out on the coffee table. "Especially since you have this sort of bloodlust coursing through you. Why are you so fascinated by this? My brother was identical in this, always seeking the rush of the gore, the puzzle of murder..."

"Murder's not a puzzle, mostly people are very stupid and they kill for equally dumb reasons. I don't want to solve them, I want to know why people think it's worth it, killing someone else. It makes a mess of things, doesn't it? I mean, why bother?" Tiffany twirled one of the grisly photographs beneath her fingertips as Mycroft stared at her, not sure what to make of the little Red Devil as she'd been nicknamed. "Nothing is that important that you have to kill someone, so you have to be stupid to commit murder in the first place. That's the only thing I can figure out for sure." She pressed her lips together, the photograph suddenly stopped in its spin. "Do you think I need to see a therapist? Auntie Jeanette thinks I have an iron deficiency that's subconsciously being expressed in my desire to see mutilated bodies and Uncle Greg thinks I'm warped by Mum's inability to juggle a big family as a single mom and that I watch too much violent telly. Auntie Sharon says I'm fine, even if I would get a dead sparrow in the mail from her. What do you think?"

Mycroft considered her words. "I think that anyone who believes murder is stupid is not a high risk for the safety of society."

Tiffany beamed at him for this, and Mycroft couldn't help but see her as a delightful, precocious little imp, one set to make Gregory's enforced family functions just that tiny bit more bearable. The argument in the kitchen had wound down, with the sisters having been stubbornly told to mind their own and that if Sharon didn't stop with the threatening cryptic notes that sent more than one potential partner screaming off, he was going to get a bloody restraining order.

"She'll just ignore it like the last one," Betty said waving off Gregory's impotent fury. "I don't have time to argue with you about this any more than I have. We said our piece, told you to be careful, nothing to do with us now, so don't come crying or looking for a place to stay again, we bloody warned you. Aw, look at that! You done the wee man in, you have! He'll sleep all the way to the butcher's now, I got to pick up that haggis for Jerry's boss's retirement party. He hates the stuff. Greg, can you give me a ride and drop me off? It's that butcher's on..."

"Car's in the shop," Greg quickly said, and Mycroft felt his stomach drop as Betty looked at him, and then at her sister Jeanette, who was standing behind Greg with her usual vulture stoop.

Rescue came in the form of a freckle faced ten year old girl who made Sherlock's obsessive pirate days seem like wicked innocence. "Uncle Mycroft said I'm staying here through the afternoon, he and Uncle Greg are taking me shopping for knives."

"I.." he caught Greg's exasperated surprise at this. "I didn't..."

But Betty was thrilled to have less of a load to carry in the form of her precocious daughter. She gave Mycroft a happy shrug and was quick to pack up the baby and the remainder of her things as she followed her sister out the front door. "Not too much candy, she's got a bad molar, taking her to the dentist at three o'clock. Don't be a trouble, Tiffany. I don't want to hear one word about you calling up 999 because you swear you saw a murder suspect. That was an eighty year old woman you set the police on, and she's still got the shakes when she talks about how they tackled her to the bloody ground, firearms police pointing automatic rifles at the curlers in her hair. Mind your business! You were dead wrong, Tiffany, she weren't the Whitechapel Witch, it was her neighbour." Betty gave Mycroft a thin smile, coat on, hats, mitts, ready to brave a chilly London winter morning, all pretence of animosity gone in an instant. "Well, you might be of some use after all. Nice meeting you...ah..?"

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft?" Jeannette snorted as she left the condo with her sister Betty in tow. "What kind of silly name is that?"

The door slammed behind them and their absence created a sudden vacuum of silence that Mycroft felt his soul collapse in relief. He watched as Greg continued to pace around his kitchen, plucking up used mugs and rinsing them out with steaming water that was scalding hot, as though he had to disinfect his life from their pestering influence. "Gregory?" Mycroft asked, giving Tiffany a nod next to him on the sofa. "Does this happen often?"

Greg was unapologetic. "I told you I had ample training in dealing with Sherlock."

"Yes," Mycroft said, and he gave the macabre little girl sitting next to him a thin smile. "I can see that."

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Families and meetings, all shall be revealed and the debris of stars are not the debris of the Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There be some spoilers for the Hannibal series in here, but if you read anything by me, you do realize I'm a *very* big fan and push it like an evangelical.
> 
> (I've been thinking that Hannibal would respect Lestrade's willingness to push aside his ego in order to bring Sherlock Holmes into the fray of his investigations, regardless of how damaging the man can be to his pride. Hannibal would find such a thing noble. A bit of kindness and humility goes a long way for a certain mad cannibal psychiatrist.)

IT'S THE SIMPLE THINGS  
chapter nine

Greg was used to taking care of Tiffany, and though it was raining and miserable outside, it was pleasant enough in his flat, Mycroft's elegant voice matching Tiffany's eager, childish tones as she explained the finer points of butchering a human being. Greg's sister, Sharon, had given Tiffany a 'Jack The Ripper' kit for Christmas, a wholly inappropriate gift that had been feeding her love of bloodlust. The kid needed some serious redirection, in Greg's opinion. But if Mycroft found the finer details of Jack the Ripper's eviscerations disturbing, he was keeping it dutifully under wraps.

"It's funny how insane psychopaths like using small knives on their victims. Did you know that Dr. Hannibal Lecter used a lino knife to slice the throats of some of his prey? Not the victims he ate piece by piece, of course, that required proper surgical tools for that kind of butchery. Those ones he kept alive, too, to keep the meat fresh. I think he might have made a mistake there, though, unless painkillers and sedatives add flavour to the meat? Calms the prey down, maybe. In interviews he said that frightened meat tastes bitter. I guess he's the expert, he's very particular about his ingredients and his cooking methods, isn't that right, Uncle Greg?"

Lestrade eyed his cell phone, knowing he was going to have to give Nigel a call and let him know that he was safe from Columbian scrutiny, but not from international intrigue. He sat at the kitchen table, reports spilling over the edge, papers in various disorganized piles. "The body is a temple. Can't say he's not on to something, though, that silkie chicken soup recipe of his is to die for."

Mycroft raised a brow at this as he caught Greg's eye. He let out a snort of amusement. "You're exchanging recipes with serial murderers?"

"Uncle Greg writes to Dr. Lecter all the time," Tiffany wriggled on the couch until she was upside down, the top of her curly red head pressed against the carpet as she continued reading True Crime Histories: Jeffrey Dahmer's Kitchen, a rather grisly blog bookmarked on her cell phone. Her tendrils of vibrant, dark red hair spilled around her head in a follicle crime scene. "He even gave Uncle Greg a notation in his latest published psychiatry paper."

"A notation? Whatever for?"

"'Coping With Negative Spaces: A Guide For Law Enforcement'. Uncle Greg was used as a case study for positive stress management when confronted with supremely negative situations and difficult people. Dr. Lecter is very impressed with Uncle Greg. He said his method of 'Placing the function of ego outside of the reach of empathic and rudimentary information allows for the free reign of deep insight.' He also feels that Uncle Greg's lack of advancement in regards to his professional ambition is due to a deep rooted fatalistic outlook embedded into his psyche by those closest to him. Is there any ice cream?"

"No sugar, you got a bad molar." Greg reminded her, and Tiffany pouted upside down. "How can you even think to eat ice cream when you got a bad tooth? Get all your damaged nerve endings in a miserable tizzy, the pain would be enough to ruin ice cream for you forever."

"I don't have a bad molar. I took a bit of black crayon and stuck it in the crown so I could get the day off school. Then I pinched my jaw so it was red. Had a French test and I didn't study."

Mycroft was still trying to piece together the earlier portion of this conversation. "You were *cited* in a psychopathic killer's psychiatry paper as a good example?"

Lestrade let out a distracted grunt of agreement at this. "Dr. Lecter has professional clout, even if he is now a permanent resident in the Baltimore Maryland Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He's still a good psychiatrist, guy really knows his stuff." Greg shrugged, "His paper 'The Manipulative Nature of Boredom In High Functioning Psychopaths' was bloody brilliant. And even if he is a cannibal, the chicken soup actually did use chicken. Except for the broth of course, that was probably people."

Mycroft was quiet a long moment at this, and Lestrade glanced up from his papers, pen poised as he regarded the well dressed man now perfectly put together and sitting in the middle of the couch, legs crossed, and a laptop open before him. Mycroft stared back at Greg as though he'd just told him he was fond of eating eyes.

"You are in regular correspondence with 'Hannibal the Cannibal'."

"Aw, come on, don't be disrespectful, Mycroft. That terrible book was sensationalist, just a pile of coffee table crap, no class at all. That charlatan Dr. Frederick Chilton should be ashamed. Dr. Lecter may not have much by way of virtues, but he's definitely a class act all the way, no faulting him there. I can't believe you read that trash."

Mycroft's mouth hung open in abject shock. "You are in regular correspondence with a man who convinced a patient to carve up and eat his own face!"

Lestrade picked up his cell phone and dialled Nigel's number. "Like I said, he knows the human mind like no other."

Mycroft was not at all convinced of the validity of this, and from the twisted grimace he gave Lestrade he had plenty of opinions on the matter. "I have to say, Gregory, I'm not sure I like how you embrace the counsellor role when it comes to your dealings with the criminal element. That self confessed monster does not need your empathy!"

"Specialist FBI profiler Will Graham would disagree."

"From what I understand of his relationship with Dr. Lecter, that particular empathy is suspiciously passionate."

"We all have our demons."

Lestrade grinned into the phone as it was answered, Nigel's growl, a barely there 'Hello'. "And a pleasant afternoon to you, too, Nigel, sorry to be disturbing your beauty rest. Got some news for you, you won't be worrying about the Columbians sticking their dirty hands in your pie any longer. Under yet another umbrella of new management, and this one has no intention to clean up Darko's messy house, if you get my meaning. You're in the all clear."

Instead of being happy about this, Nigel grumbled a series of miserable Romanian curses, a worried pip from Adam in the background answering him, and Nigel shouting back, "Nothing, darling. It's just Greg being a fucking idiot." Nigel came back on the line, sotto voiced and angry, "Listen, you stupid cunt, there are still people watching us! I found the little fucking camera, okay? Fucking bastard perverts, is that what these people are now? Nothing is okay, we are still in danger, and now the target is on my little angel and I am the devil who is going to send them all to hell, do you get it now?"

The line went dead. Nigel had hung up, leaving a frustrated Lestrade at the other end. He cursed and tossed the cell phone on top of the pile of papers in front of him and rubbed his palms across the stubble lining his jaw. Mycroft glanced up from above the back of his open laptop, head held high and elegant, a look of concern sent Lestrade's way. "I take it Nigel Ibenescu is still as angry as ever."

"The man was born with curse words on his tongue. He's pissed that they're still under surveillance, and a pissed off Nigel is an unstable Nigel. You got to call off your dogs."

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Gregory, not until we have in our possession Adam Raki's invasive space program." He glanced at Tiffany, who was engrossed in images from a site called Faces Of Death, and impatiently took her cell phone from her and redirected her to the site 'Pathological Aspects Of Forensic Investigation'. "If you are going to be freakishly macabre, my dear girl, you might as well be practical about it."

Mycroft left the couch to approach Gregory at the dining room table, the light from the kitchen bathing them in various shades of grey, the large window next to the table splattered with streaks of rain that cut into the streetlights and distant traffic. Lestrade stared out the window, at the misted dreariness that drenched the city in lieu of snow, the muffling darkness of it making him tired. It felt like he was fighting a battle for people who had ever increasing complex threads connecting them up together, every taut line ready to snap if he didn't tie them just right. Mycroft slid into the chair beside him, his laptop open and shoved in front of Lestrade, its blue glow as tiresome as every shred of London felt.

"My operatives conducted surveillance of them on the roof of the apartment where they are currently dwelling. There has not yet been an overview and I'm keen to see what it reveals, my agents informed me that Adam Raki had set up a telescope, its angle and trajectory one that is in perfect alignment with Io, one of the moons of Jupiter, though it's unlikely the telescope he used was powerful enough to properly see it, of course. However, he has been making the same observations at this angle for several weeks now, including during his time at Mount Wilson Observatory. Clearly there is something special about this place in space that is making him investigate it so thoroughly."

"Yes," Lestrade agreed, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "He likes looking at Io. Because it's in *space*."

"You are oversimplifying this issue, Gregory."

"No, you are complicating things that are not complicated."

On Mycroft's laptop screen the image of Nigel and Adam on the rooftop of their apartment building was in crystal clarity, a tiny blue triangle in the middle of the image indicating it was a video file. Lestrade sighed at Mycroft's stubborn determination, a trait he shared with his brother though in a far more sanitized version, his thoughts organized and polished until they were gleaming beacons of insight, allowing no room for variation. Lestrade understood he himself was no genius, it's why he begged of Sherlock's help so often, but he also knew that living one's life without the slightest bend towards alternate possibilities was a sure way of getting burned by the unexpected. Neither Holmes brother seemed to get the whole fractal nature of the universe, that sometimes what the evidence points to is something very, very different to what you expect.

He hit play and the small scene of Nigel and Adam on the roof of the apartment at night was brought to life, the volume turned too low. Mycroft increased it and brought the image into full screen mode, flooding the kitchen with Nigel's smoke and curses.

"Always fucking staring at us, darling, we are fish in a bowl and leaping out will only be to our deaths. Stupid bastards. What is wrong with these fucking cunts? Never mind, my darling. If there is a last gasp to be had, I will gladly give my breath to you."

Adam was on his knees, crouched at the small lens of his telescope, Nigel draped around him in what would have been on anyone else a sloppy, amorous posture. Nigel, with his long, strong limbs, was still a great cat, purring and predatory around his kitten, smoke from his cigarette held aloft and circling them both. He nuzzled the back of Adam's neck, warming it with his lips and words. "Are you staring at angels, darling?"

Adam's voice held a note of excitement within it, far different from the computed timbre Mycroft had witnessed on their first meeting. "The constellation I am observing is along the trajectory of Io. There is evidence of five supernova remnants along the periphery of my target that have not yet been detected, and I suspect they are already near dissipation and will no longer be visible in less than two hundred years. It is possible that some of their debris may have been absorbed by the elder dwarf, but I cannot properly calculate that certainty, I will need significantly more data. Your breath tickles my neck, Nigel." Adam complained, but he was smiling, neck bent in coquettish teasing that Nigel instantly alighted on, cigarette held high as he traced nibbling kisses along the slender, white curve of flesh.

Nigel pressed closer, his face buried in that small, slender spot at Adam's throat, a lazy smile lost in bliss. "We're all so stupid here, aren't we, gorgeous?" He pointed towards the sky with his cigarette, smoke trailing like a comet from its hot tip. "Caring so much about all our petty problems, about life and death, as if these things matter. But we are specks in all of it, little pieces of dust that barely flicker in the light, no matter how big we think we are. We aren't like stars, darling. We sputter out and leave behind useless trash."

"That's not true," Adam said, frowning slightly, his fiercely angelic face looking even more youthful in the moonlight. "Stars do that, too."

"You mean your remnants. How can those beautiful calculations in that pretty head of yours compare to these guts of ours? We are not stars, Adam. If you were to disappear from existence, so would my universe. Only ugliness would be in the place of your absence. Nothing but shit remains for me without you. Listen to me, gorgeous, I fucking love you. Stars and moons and some cunt called the sun. None of it matters if you aren't the one looking at them."

Greg rested his chin in his hands, watching with a sense of bemusement as Nigel passionately kissed Adam, top secret M16 surveillance doing little more than playing voyeur upon the unlikely, rather quiet love affair of a crazy Romanian ex-gangster and an autistic astronomer. "You're absolutely right, this is definitely a matter of national importance. Clearly, this foreign influence is set to destroy us. Good, staid Englishmen do not go up on rooftops and proclaim their love from them. Next thing you know, these sorts will be doing all kinds of dangerous things, like holding hands in public or--Heaven forbid!--Buying groceries together!"

Mycroft watched the two lovers, their amorous intention never quite dipping into the realm of pornography, but unsettling in its intimacy nonetheless. He closed the laptop and gave Lestrade a heavy sigh in response. "They are obscenely in love. I suppose I should be understanding of that fervent sentiment since I am infected with it myself, to the point of finding it discomforting to be reminded of it in others. In truth, I thought I hated it, and yet...Nigel Ibenescu is a changed man as a result of it. I have to wonder how much of that transformation has been festering within me, and what changes to my person have thus been rendered."

"When you smile it no longer looks like your back is hurting," Lestrade said.

"Ah. Large changes, indeed."

There was a loud knock at the door, and Greg groaned at the insistent rapping. He didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that it was Betty at the door, finally back to pick up Tiffany, dour Jeanette accompanying her. Betty hushed the fussing baby now perched on her hip, and gave the sombre mood in Greg's flat a piercing judgement. "It's as quiet as a funeral in here. You been planning any, Tiffany?"

"Not any more than usual," Tiffany cheerfully answered her. She rolled off the couch and bounded to her feet in the strange, rubbery consistency of children of her age, her curly red hair a hell's halo. "Uncle Mycroft let me read the missile plans of the refurbished nuclear bombs sold to Turkey in the late 1990's. I don't think we have much to worry about, they used Turing for the programming language and damage to the internal chips has degraded it. They won't know how to fix it."

Mycroft gave Greg's shocked surprise at this a tired shrug. "Snowden already leaked it ages ago."

"*Uncle* Mycroft," Betty said, giving the tense man standing near Greg another one of her friendly, but not really, grins. "Look at how fast you weasel right in! First making the baby happy now earning a niece. We'll be going to a wedding by morning, Jeannette! An adoption of a brood by afternoon!"

Jeanette's hawk like, humourless hovering behind her elder sister swooped out from behind her to attack Mycroft, a small box held out to him. He frowned at the ugly brown squares in its centre, the corners suspiciously fuzzy, as though coated in mold. "These are Tempeh Tempters. Have one."

Mycroft patted his stomach. "Oh, I couldn't. Really. On a diet, you see."

Jeanette's hawk obstinacy would not be daunted.

"Eat. One."

Greg felt bad for Mycroft, he really did, for he well understood how intimidating Jeanette could be when she was determined to do something for your own good, which usually involved eating something not even bacteria enjoyed. There was many a day he'd spent arguing with his colon thanks to the weird concoctions his sister had dreamed up while at the organic grocery store where she worked, imperfect naturopathy floating through her head like so much flotsam. Still, it was rather amusing, watching Mycroft daintily pick one of the squares out of the box and pop it in its entirety into his mouth. Mistake. The blind bravery of the man! Greg craned his neck up at him from where he sat, the pained expression on Mycroft's face telling him a glass of nail biting fluid would have been preferable.

"It's got essence of poison oak in it," Jeanette said, and Mycroft choked at this information. "Excellent for dampening overactive dopamine levels in the brain. Come on Tiffany, get your coat and boots on, I have to get back to the store. I have to take the cactus leaf cookies off the shelf, we've had complaints of tongue lacerations."

Mycroft was still gagging over the 'treat', and Betty took the opportunity to sidle up to Greg and deliver her usual deadly blow. "Sharon said your birthday party is next Friday, so don't miss it."

No. No fucking way.

"No."

"Don't do this, Greg. You know what she does when you disappoint her."

"She'll make arrangements at some place I hate, like she always does, and then will back out and cancel the whole thing without telling me. I've shown up alone at my damned birthday party for the past ten years, Betty, and always at some alternative event."

"Quit your whinging. Sharon does mean well."

Greg was livid at this. He turned on his sister, furious. "You do remember last year, that wine tasting with dementia patients from a nearby nursing home? A hundred and four year old lady of the evening kept putting me in a choke hold and slipping me the tongue!"

"You said they did have a lovely selection of cheese."

"The year before that was the bowling with the Blind Society, oh that was fun, broke four of my bloody toes. But let's not forget the Undertaker's Society Convention when I turned thirty, that was lovely. Learned all about the embalming. Was forced to go onstage and do a demo. Seeing as how I'm not an undertaker and had no clue what I was doing, I made one hell of a mess. Got chided for sloppy corpse handling."

"Passed your forensics exam with flying colours thanks to that and got you on the fast track to homicide. You really are a complainer, aren't you?"

"For God's sake, Betty. No. Sharon is not doing this to me again!"

Betty gave him a friendly pat on his shoulder that did not in any way show she had given credence to one word he said. "She'll be texting you. Come on Tiffany, enough staring at the bloody murdered for one day. Say goodbye to Mr. Holmes, then, tell him thank you for the attention, though I'm not too sure I like you having the means of world domination at your disposal. If you start getting all twitchy and speaking in foreign languages in your sleep I'll be needing to get the bloody priest again, and you know how much he loves the cheap wine and upchucking it into the kitchen sink when you get all graphic about vivisections."

Goodbyes were said, and Greg gave them a bored wave as the front door closed behind his extended family. Poor Mycroft was still choking on the square of poison oak tempeh. Greg watched as the lithe man staggered into the kitchen and without getting up from his haphazard workstation at the table, Greg pointed to a top shelf over the oven. "Whiskey's up there. Should clear out your palate well enough."

Mycroft's shaky hands found it and he poured a generous tumbler, which he downed in three gulps, not able to come up for air until it was finished.

"Better?"

"Dear God, why are your sisters trying to kill me?"

"They try to kill everyone, you're not singled out, don't worry."

He glanced up, catching Mycroft's continued confusion and gave the dour man a low laugh. "I guess you could say I'm the family pet, in a way. They have a habit of always meddling when they shouldn't, and I've pushed back the best I could over the years, but the bad habits of others are impossible to break. You ought to know this, you do have Sherlock Holmes as your little brother."

"Family can be a perilous thing," Mycroft agreed. He let out one of his now familiar sighs and placed the now empty tumbler of whiskey in the sink, seeking Greg out where he sat at the dining table and placing him in an embrace that was both tender and questioning. His spindle thin arms were a great contrast to Greg's own muscular bulk, and he ran his hands along their length, tempting the fragility of the man.

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't give a toss what they think of you. I know you're lovely, that's enough." He leaned his head back, urging the trembling man holding him to surrender a kiss, one that was paid dutifully and still with that tender shyness that Greg found every measure of alluring. "Tiffany likes you, at least you won't have to worry about her."

Mycroft frowned, a delightful pucker in the centre of his forehead that Greg couldn't stop himself from smoothing out with his thumb. "Oh, but I do, Gregory, that girl has disturbing hobbies. Can she not be redirected into activities less bloodthirsty, such as taxidermy?"

"Already tried that. Where do you think Sharon gets her dead sparrows?"

He couldn't elaborate on this point and ease Mycroft's shock at the understanding, for Mycroft's cell phone bleated Beethoven, disturbing the easy gentle mood that was descending over both of them. Greg could hear the energetic tones of Sherlock's voice leaking from the appendage now pressed tight against Mycroft's cheek. Mycroft sighed and tried to get a word in, but was summarily cut off by his brother, barking orders given.

Mycroft pocketed his cell phone, giving the whole matter an eye roll. "We have been summoned."

"I take it Himself has another lead?"

"Apparently so, and one that can't be simply revealed through a phone call. This dreary day gets better and better. I'm sorry to add to your need for fortitude today, Gregory. There is yet another uncomfortable relative, this time my contribution, to contend with."

~*~

The fact they arrived together was already a source of consternation for Sherlock, who sneered at their mutual arrival at 221B with naked contempt. "Look at this, Watson, they amble in like conjoined twins, forever connected, never one without the other. Not a shred of decorum between them. Good Lord, you can practically see the paw prints all over our familiar Inspector's body, outlines of my brother's cold, clammy grip seeping through the fabric. Obscene!"

Mycroft clutched the handle of his umbrella just that little bit too tightly, the damp chill of the air outside somehow banished by the warm fire lit within Sherlock's living room. "Are we to stand here on the landing for the remainder of this day and suffer your ignorant judgement, my dear brother?"

"No talk of that!" A bustling Mrs. Hudson cooed as she cheerfully bounded up the stairs, a tea tray held for dear life in her grip which was used to great effectiveness in shoving both Mycroft and Lestrade into the small apartment. "Tea for everyone! Oh, and an orange soda for you, dear. And look, I brought up those nice little coconut biscuits, the ones John always stuffs his face with. Can't keep a crumb on the table when he's around! Oh, and Sherlock, dear, that rat problem...I know they do come when you call them, like dogs, and yes it's very amusing, but I think they might be breeding..."

Mycroft ignored Mrs. Hudson's worries as he made a beeline for the living room where, to his shock, a rather angelic man sat dwarfed in Sherlock's chair, a laptop opened before him in his lap. He glanced up at Mycroft with eyes that glittered with all the purpose of constellations, points delicately aligned together in an understanding of the universe that left every man in the room in ignorance.

"Adam," Greg said, frowning as he took the small man's presence in. "Where's Nigel?"

"He doesn't know I'm here," Adam said. "I told him I was going to get milk."

Greg sank into John's usual chair across from him and rubbed his face with his hands, not at all liking the scenario that was set to play out. "He's going to lose his shit, Adam. You know how crazy protective he is of you, he's going to end up killing someone out of sheer panic." He clasped his hands in front of him taking in the overly quiet, contemplative figure who was clearly very uncomfortable with the riveted attention he'd earned from everyone in the room.

"I...I'd really like that orange soda."

John was the one who obliged, while Sherlock filled them both in with details that weren't exactly necessary. "He showed up here, sitting there like that, pretty as you please. Picked the front door lock and when we woke up here he was, perched in my chair and basking in the glow of internet intrigue and plotting any number of nefarious deeds."

Greg gave Adam a questioning look. Adam's response was without emotion. "I quietly knocked and Mrs. Hudson let me in. Then she gave me cookies."

"Of course she did," Greg said, smiling at him. "I think the main point, Adam, is why you decided to come here. I mean, these fellows aren't exactly good mates or a calm lot, so it might be best to just spill your motives."

Adam frowned, and it was such a pretty little expression on him it was as though the angels above sighed in happiness over it. It was no wonder a brute like Nigel was so smitten.

"I need them to leave us alone." Adam glanced warily at Mycroft, who was now an imposing figure at the fireplace, and then at Sherlock, equally imposing in his doorway, before descending back onto whatever was on his laptop screen, the images quelling his rising fear. Greg noticed how the man's knee was quaking and the tap-tapping of his fingers along the outer edge of the laptop, little fidgets that were ritual comfort measures. They would have to tread careful here, Greg knew, lest Adam bolt in terror despite there being nowhere to go, a cornered deer frozen in anticipation of its fate.

"They seem to think you're harbouring some sort of space program," Greg said, holding up his hand against Mycroft's unspoken objection. "Is this true, Adam? They found something running underneath one of your other programs you were working on for the Mount Wilson Observatory. Are you doing something you shouldn't?"

Adam pouted. He slowly opened his can of orange soda and took a gentle sip before continuing.

"I just want to look at space."

"Obviously. Who wouldn't?"

"I know!" Adam was eager in his sudden enthusiasm, his face brightening into a saint's joy, not a hint of ill will within him. "Space is the beginning of who we are, it's the answer to everything. The world doesn't exist without it, it's a concept as much as a physical thing. Space is...It's impossible. Yet here we are, existing within it." He gave Greg a dazzling grin. "Do you want to see the latest deep space pictures? Purple and blue gas masses, easily two million years old..."

"Maybe later," Greg said, knowing well that one picture would lead to another until finally the entire day and night would be spent with Adam waxing poetic about this or that purported galaxy, its age and its attributes, all outlined in painstakingly minute detail. "What I really, need, Adam, is for you to tell me what that little piggybacking program of yours was supposed to accomplish, so all these people keeping an eye on you can rest easy in the knowledge it's not to go firing off rockets at random cities and turning London into a large crater."

Adam shook his head at this. "That would be very inefficient." He sipped his soda, the sudden silence in 221B rather deafening. He blinked as the rest of the occupants in the room came into focus, his little angel's frown taking them in as though he'd only just realized more people than Lestrade were in the room. Greg sat back in John's chair, knowing that this reaction was, in part, actually true. Adam's hyperfocus had a habit of wiping away everything else around him, and he did exist in a little bubble of thought that bounced along the corporeal world in a state of catalogued numbers and indexes, rarely seeing beyond the scope of his limited passions. Those things that did capture Adam's attention were placed in such over-arching importance it was difficult for him to manage other variables, like how to order a cup of coffee without collapsing in distress over the abundance of flavours and choice.

"I'm here because I need them to leave us alone," Adam said.

Mycroft gave a frustrated huff at this and was about to offer one of his imposing speeches, but Greg held up his hand, stopping him. Greg brought Adam's focus back to the original question. "Why do you need them to leave you alone, Adam?"

Adam was confused by this, because the answer, at least to him, was obvious.

"They make Nigel upset. So they have to stop."

"A rather one sided request, Mr. Raki," Mycroft said, stepping forward to stand beside Adam, where he could stare down his long nose at the ruffled young man shrunken in Sherlock's chair. Greg could see the keen shark's eyes of the man take in the contents of the laptop's screen, earning all manner of information from it. "You wish for your lover to be given a sense of peace and yet you offer none in return. We are confident your are doing nothing to ease the burden of our surveillance, not with how deftly you avoid talking about why you placed that program within the satellite systems now orbiting our little garbage strewn planet. If you wish to remain anonymous, that is an impossibility. Whether you reveal willingly now or later is a moot point, we shall gather the intelligence on you regardless."

Adam's mouth pressed into a tight pout. "You need to leave us alone. Nigel is upset..."

"A burden you are now set to bear thanks to your thoughtless actions."

"I just wanted to look at space. That's all."

"Secretively. Why?"

Adam closed his eyes, and, with his mouth still a firm line, he turned his laptop so Gregory could watch as he clicked on a file, which in turned opened hundreds of other files. Adam scrolled through what had to be dozens upon dozens more before finding one with an exceptionally long number labelling it, and double clicking on it. The file was password protected.

Both John and Sherlock were now standing close behind Greg, and they peered at the small screen as Adam brought to light several video files, each one with a corresponding catalogue number.

Though he couldn't quite articulate why, Greg felt a sickening well rise up from deep within his gut. He forced Adam to pause before hitting one of the little blue triangles that would bring the video to life. "Adam, what are these?"

Adam shrugged.

"People in love."

Greg chewed his bottom lip. "Right. And when you say that, you mean..."

"I mean they are in love."

"Like how you and Nigel are?"

"Definitely."

A small light bulb went off in Greg's mind, but before he could prevent the tragedy from happening, Sherlock in his infinite impatience, snatched the laptop from Adam Raki's hands and selected one of the files with a fierce tap of his finger.

"Sherlock, don't...!" Greg warned but, of course, it was far too late for that, the file was open, the volume was turned high, and though the scene was presently for John and Sherlock alone, there was no mistaking who, exactly, was pleading 'Please...Please...Oh please..."

Sherlock let the laptop spill from his hands and, sadly, John's quick reflexes managed to catch it before it fell to the floor. John snapped the offending thing shut, silencing the panting need of the man who presently stood ghost white at the fireplace, so mortified he was ready to fade into the very mantel behind him.

Sherlock's eyes were squeezed shut. "You put an image of my brother rutting in ecstasy into my mind palace, and no matter how much I am currently trying, it's refusing to delete. You are a monster, Adam Raki. The foulest I have ever met. Seeing my brother's pale, pasty, veal inspired naked flesh writhing in erotic passion beneath the ministrations of Scotland Yard's most underrated porn star is not an image I can forgive of you."

"If it makes you feel any better, Sherlock, that's an image burned into the hard drive of my mind as well, and it will likewise inspire nightmares."

"I have never in my entire life felt to have been so deeply understood than I do in this moment, John."

"Tragedy does bring people together."

Greg made a face and scratched at his ear, not at all as upset as he probably should be, but then, his sister Sharon had done far worse to him over the years. "So, this is your little catalogue of insurance against people who are bothering you and Nigel. Your 'leave us alone' files."

"Correct," Adam said.

"Blackmailer!" Mycroft spat at him, the tip of his umbrella near piercing the floorboard beside Adam's foot. "Insufferable monster! You seek to use this against me!"

Adam looked up at him, confused.

"No," he said.

"You will sell this to the highest bidder! A wanton act of destruction that you wish to use to discredit me! I will not stand for this, I will personally see to having you and your deranged gypsy psychopath executed!"

"No," Adam repeated.

Mycroft was obviously rattled, and not just by his brother's whinging in the background that he needed to use a Bunsen burner on his corneas to eradicate the imprinted image of Mycroft and Lestrade's lovemaking. "Clearly you have a game in mind, Adam Raki, and it is a foul one. What is it you want? Money? Power? I refuse to relinquish either to you. The files will be destroyed, or I will have harm come to your precious Nigel..."

"No," Adam said, as calmly as before, a fact that irritated Mycroft no end.

"What the devil do you want, you perverse little elf!"

"I've said it many times already," Adam said, slowly as though those in the room were very dim indeed and couldn't understand the most basic of sentences. "I need you to leave Nigel and I alone. Nigel gets very upset, and he doesn't sleep, and he won't let me on the roof to look at space, and he paces the apartment, and he doesn't eat properly. He smokes more cigarettes. His hand shakes when he pushes aside the curtains. He talks to himself in Romanian. He bites his nails and curses. I think he is unhappy. I don't like that."

Greg sat back in John Watson's chair, all pieces coming together in his mind and rendering the moment far less tense than anyone else in the room had a right to feel. "It's a complicated sort of thing, isn't it, Adam, caring about someone?"

"Yes," Adam said.

Greg nodded in agreement over this, much to Mycroft's thin lipped chagrin. "You'll go to any lengths to protect them from harm. So you make sure there's a leverage in place, to ensure those you love are safe and happy in the future. Like implementing a reverse feed program into a surveillance camera."

"It's very easy to do," Adam assured him.

"Just like putting a program inside of another program to investigate possible supernova remnants in deep space is an easy thing to do."

Adam grinned widely at Greg. "The x-rays are terribly degraded and difficult to detect, but the calculations are there. I've found one older than the Vela supernova remnant, by thirty thousand years and, like the oldest historically recorded remnant, RCW 86, it is also a Type Ia supernova, which is a white dwarf, a dead star, that has had material from another star pushed into it, destabilizing it."

Greg relaxed further into the chair, all feeling of tension within him gone. "That's very interesting."

"It's amazing! Imagine discovering something as important and unusual as that! The oldest remnant we have been able to record solely by latent calculation and resulting observation! I'm thinking of calling it the Ibenescu 06, as there are five others in the direct vicinity, similar in age to RCW 86, but as they are far younger white dwarves and only a few thousand years old they aren't as directly relevant for study, though they should also be recorded as a matter of navigation."

Greg gave Adam a knowing smile at this. "I guess it's safe to say the Mount Wilson Observatory doesn't know about this yet?"

"Oh no, I don't have funding for that, and they'd be very angry I used their satellite systems for investigating it. I had to be sneaky. I don't like doing that, but it was so important, Inspector Lestrade, I mean, a supernova remnant thirty thousand years older than expected! It would be wrong not to record it!"

Sherlock's eyes sprung open and he fixed them on Adam Raki, sitting prim and innocent in his chair, a wistful expression on his face. Sherlock loomed over him, and it was clear Adam Raki had no clue of the danger such a posture was supposed to inspire.

"Are you telling me you have subjected my deductive efforts, my vast hours of toil upon secreted computer code, my very consciousness seared by my brother's naked, sweaty, vile flesh, all for the purpose of staring at a star that does not, in fact, exist?"

"Absolutely," Adam cheerfully replied.

Sherlock winced. He held the tip of his finger against his temple. "John, I have the strangest sensation within my skull. Like a piercing pressure that refuses to abate and it feels as though my very grey matter is set to seep out of my ears. What is this malady?"

"It's a headache," John replied, and coughed into his fist. "I'll get you an aspirin."

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so we conclude....
> 
> This really has been a lot of fun to write, and I want to thank everyone who has been kind enough to read and comment on this story, it meant a lot to me when working on it. I hope you enjoyed this odd little tale...And I hope you're all happy, I've officially become a Mystrade 'ho. :P

IT'S THE SIMPLE THINGS  
chapter ten

Mycroft Holmes and his inner parchment were having a very sincere heart to heart about the predicament they were currently in, one that involved nets, cages, possible firearms and highly evolved rats. Though one could argue that Sherlock's experiments in rodent eugenics had met with some modicum of success, it was Greg who reasoned the parental rats merely taught their children that hearing Sherlock call either 'Willard!' or 'Ben!' into the bowels of 221B would result in ample tasty biscuits for every generation. Thus, the situation was one of environmental factors rather than lineage, a fact that Sherlock contemplated deeply, adding more points of personal interest in regards to the wrongness of his upbringing. According to Sherlock, a rearing of reward without limits had resulted in his inability to foresee detriment to his actions, a black mark checked on the ever expanding list against Mummy and Father.

Mycroft's infernal parchment paper fluttered within his mind, and ink scratched lazily on its surface, outlining his current situation in terms of highly personal pique:

_1) I am in a basement, a dark and dusty tomb where the walls are lined in tattered wallpaper, the print circa 1901, and where the very structure of 221B seems to be in question. There are vast watermarks on the low ceiling of this moldy space, and though the last time anyone had come down here was due to the influence of Moriarity and a pair of preserved vintage sneakers, the basement retains that gloomy air that fills my lungs with its despairing. It reeks of rot and seaweed._

_2) I am wearing too nice of a suit to be rat catching._

_3) Gregory is exemplary in his kindness to Mrs. Hudson, who tearfully begged him this morning to take care of her little vermin problem, and Gregory in his infinite capacity for kindness which manifests in the ease with which he assists others when in need, and to both his own and now my detriment, has been ensnared by her trouble and has likewise brought us both to ruin by saying, "Come on, My, they come when you call them, shouldn't be too much of a bother." Which, of course, it most certainly is. It is a bother, indeed._

_4) OH DEAR GOD, something small, fuzzy, with slimy feet and naked tail just brushed against my ankle and NO, it did NOT nibble at the sharp protruding bone hidden beneath silk argyle, and NO! MONSTROUS CREATURE! VILE VERMIN! NO! NO! NO!_

"We're not going to catch a one if you keep screaming every time one gets close enough for the trap to snag it."

"This is a foul enterprise, Gregory."

"Don't say that so loud, you'll hurt their feelings and they hunt in groups. I wouldn't want them snatching up your toes, I like them too much."

"There is nothing at all amusing about this, and stop, Gregory! My skin is crawling enough without you dancing your fingers along my back!"

"I'm standing in front of you, and I'm holding a cage in my hand."

"JACK BLACK, SAVE US!"

Mycroft madly squirmed in his suit and hunkered closer to Greg, his skin tingling with anticipation of another rat getting just that little bit too close, and oh, this was a dreadful way to spend an afternoon! Blast Sherlock and his ridiculous experiments and his lazy attempt at a Pied Piper Army! And where was the king of the rats now? Ah yes, secluded on his throne in his living room, pouting that his interspecies minion creation had resulted in the ruination of several of his other experiments, the rats having nibbled through several bowls of partially frozen fingers and rendering his data useless. The fact they had eaten John's laptop cord and had made a real mess of Mrs. Hudson's pantry were barely taken into account, the latter considered an act of some intelligence since the vermin had collectively become smart enough to know where the original food source had come from. Mrs. Hudson had to remind him their raiding of her pantry was more likely due to them running up and down the pipes from the basement and accidentally finding her kitchen along the way through a hole underneath the kitchen sink.

"Dolts, then, the lot of them," Sherlock said, depressed. "It seems the human race shares much with its rodent brethren. Opportunistic without thought. It's a sad day to have such confirmation, John."

John was not moved in the least. "They've destroyed my jumper."

"I see. So there may be some aberrations, a very small percentage of their ilk who understand fashion. Interesting."

The lack of sympathy from everyone around him had left Sherlock in a miserable humour and thus upstairs he remained, brooding and cranky and muttering how unfair it was that Mycroft could steal his pets this way, and no, he wasn't sure if Sherlock was talking about the rats or Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

"You know, Himself made this bloody problem, he should be the one down here cleaning it up."

"Ah yes, expecting Sherlock to be responsible. You are very funny, Gregory."

The cage door snapped shut on another no-so-intelligent-as-he-first-appears rat and Mycroft couldn't stop himself from flinching against the sound of the ricocheting clang. Lestrade's happy "Gotcha, you bastard!" was a suitable exclamation.

"Are you boys doing all right down there?" Mrs. Hudson's sing-song voice shouted into the depths of her house. "John says you shouldn't have gone down there without booster shots, and I do hope none of the little monsters have given you a nibble. Wouldn't want to be catching the bubonic plague."

"Such a helpful, cheerful woman," Mycroft sneered.

Gregory was busy stalking his latest generational prey, a collection of dark, rodent bodies in a nearby hole in the corner of the concrete. The inhabitants were most definitely highly sentient if the cautious, red-eyed looks they were given from the depths of the shadows were any hint, pinkpricks of the devils advocates chattering amongst themselves and plotting their doom.

"I can't bear to be here much longer."

"Not bothering me none. It's kind of like being out on the field, actually."

"Need I remind you I am anathema to legwork?"

"Still beats what Sharon did to me over my birthday."

"And why would you bring that up?"

"I'm just saying, it was far worse, you can't deny that. I did you warn you, My, she's an absolute horror show."

Mycroft's sensibilities stiffened anew at the memory. Sharon's birthday party for Gregory ended up being at a 'great picnic spot' that was, in fact, a cursed stretch of boggy woods near Oxshott that had earned the nickname Suicide Park. Through mist and a map that was out of date, they'd spent three hours traipsing long abandoned trails in search of her and his other two sisters, frayed ropes hanging from stern upper branches brushing across their shoulders and cold, damp droplets of dew falling from the fated branches and onto their scalps. No happy hearts here, not in Suicide Park where notes of despair were etched into the bark of every tree, overlapping and scarring them with abject misery. Mycroft, who had wandered off the path, had stepped on a human skull in a peat strewn puddle, turning the whole effort into a full blown murder investigation.

It all went worse from there. By the time they'd found their way out of the confusing woods, they were exhausted and night was threatening to envelop them. With a blood red sky smeared across the horizon of the death filled park, they'd stepped out of the gloom and onto the main road after hours of aimless marching. They both stood silent beside Greg's new grey Mercedes, their bodies dripping in muck, a slimy human skull in Greg's hand, plucked out of the bog before it was lost again within its thick, watery tomb. Not good procedure, but nor was leaving it to sink further beneath the soft earth as rain was approaching, and with a vengeance. As he held the skull aloft bits of spinal tissue trailed along the ground. Mycroft wasn't sure how they were supposed to spend the rest of Greg's birthday after that. Getting some short rope and hanging oneself seemed a viable answer to that predicament, but Gregory opted to call a forensics team in instead.

When they finally left the scene the next morning and Greg was able to get reliable cell phone service again, they discovered Sharon had texted her brother at the exact point of their arrival to Suicide Park:

_**Sharon:** (two beers clinking icon)_

They were all at the local village pub, in a highly civilized, touristy section of town, and the running tab was in his name. Betty assured them both she was having a 'Ripping good time!' Oh, and by the way, could he pay up?

"I do not want to talk about your birthday." Mycroft shuddered. He leaned against the basement wall and Gregory, finally setting his humane traps and leaving them to their work, joined him, his heat a welcome to the chill that still permeated Mycroft's bones even now, with their trip to Suicide Park weeks into their past. "Nigel and Adam will be in California by now, Adam's TED talks finally wrapped up on Tuesday. I must say, when the spectre of violence is no longer an issue, Mr. Ibenescu can be quite charming. He was kind enough to give me a cigarette when I discovered Sherlock had stolen the last of mine."

"And to light it," Greg said, and Mycroft didn't like the shadow that crossed his Inspector's face at this.

"He was merely flirting, Gregory."

"He was testing me to see how far my heart has fallen, he was looking to cause a fight, which yes, he damned near did. Lighting your cigarette, putting that hand on the small of your back, leaning into you when you were laughing, all of it a right cock up to get me going. You're lucky I got restraint."

Ah, his darling Gregory, a tender little jealous streak within him sparking a mischievous light within Mycroft's understanding. How very sweet it was, the way Gregory had clung to his side over dinner at their home, his hip roughly shoving Nigel over, glaring at the Romanian ex-gangster with enough ire to send bullets into the man with his thoughts alone. Greg was still feeling possessive even now in a rat strewn basement, and Mycroft kissed his rugged keeper and grinned into the affection, fingers lazily stroking the collar of his white shirt.

"And I have fallen, you know," his Gregory rasped into his ear, moist lips sending each word against the tender flesh of Mycroft's throat. "My heart couldn't have fallen any more for you than if it popped out of my body right now and burned its way straight through the Earth's core and out the bloody back end of Antarctica."

Yes, this was lovely, the way Gregory was now kissing him, Mycroft's inner parchment a complete blank as his mind and body became singular in their pursuit of sensation. He sank under the weight of Gregory's touch, melting into it as heavy sighs began to become more urgent. When was it that this man's hips became such a focal point of pleasure, they way they moved, the way they pressed deeper, the rush of adrenaline such a heady temptation his body provided, coursing along fluttering wings within his belly.

"Can you hear them, John! They're panting down there, like a couple of teenagers pretending to study for an exam! Ahoy, there! Rat catching is not a strenuous activity!"

Lestrade broke the embrace, giving Sherlock's judgement a heavy sigh. "Bastard really knows how to kill a mood."

This didn't stop Mycroft from giving his Inspector a gentle caress on his cheek with the back of his hand, and then with his palm pressed against it, so eager for touch it pained him to feel separated. "We can continue this line of thought at home, accompanied by a bottle of good wine and a set of crisp, clean sheets. I'm afraid I have business to attend to for the remainder of the day and will afterwards be in deep contemplation in the quiet room of The Diogenes Club. Extremists along the Turkish border are causing further political stir and I've been called in to intervene. I'll be drinking strong coffee and figuring the finer points of volatile diplomacy."

One of the cages snapped shut and they both heard a little whoop of victory from Mrs. Hudson upstairs.

Instead of moving away, Greg leaned closer, his arms bracing Mycroft as he pressed his palms against the wall on either side of the man's head, his forehead pressed softly against Mycroft's own. "I need you to understand something."

Mycroft felt his stomach flutter, wings beating really hard now. "I will do my best to."

"That thing that Adam did for Nigel."

"A creepy act of voyeurism, yes."

"You do understand it was for love. Because Adam does love him. He can't say it properly, he approaches the whole feeling sideways and maybe even a little upside down, but that's what it was. Adam saw Nigel was hurting and he felt a very deep need to protect him. He keeps those files for Nigel's sake, for his safety."

Mycroft raised a brow at this. "Adam Raki is, admittedly, a puzzle of a man to me. Our little dinner with them, wine and macaroni and cheese, proved to be enlightening. You were right all along, there is nothing in Adam's head but space and, somewhere on the periphery, Nigel. Quite an odd development in our new mutual acquaintance with him and Nigel both, but not a wholly unpleasant one." Mycroft's gaze met Greg's. "Why are you telling me what we already know?"

"Adam Raki is in love with Nigel Ibenescu and will do anything to keep him safe, including threatening the government of Britain. He courted some pretty serious repercussions, there."

"He did."

"And what do you think of that?"

Mycroft smiled. "I love you, Gregory."

"I've had a hint or two that might be true."

Mycroft hesitated, watching with intense worry as Greg's happy grin gradually morphed into uncertainty, a cool kiss on Mycroft's forehead doing little to ease the sudden tension erupting between them. His inner parchment tried to scribble a warning, and Mycroft broke his mental pen, aborting all of its future efforts to mock him.

"What will I do to protect you, Gregory?"

Greg didn't answer. He caressed Mycroft's cheek, another kiss placed on his lips.

Mycroft's heart felt as though it was cracking, and it was this, the dreaded sentiment that had boiled over and was crushing it, the understanding that what he was could not, in any shape, be able to sustain this man's happiness. He would ruin him, eventually. Circumstances would occur, the world needed Mycroft's steady, unbending reason, and cities would fall all thanks to the selfish beat of his heart.

"I will do terrible things you won't love me for." Mycroft swallowed the stone lurking in his throat, the words difficult to articulate. Gregory's sudden, confused stare was not helping, and Mycroft had to gently push him away, aware now, of the folly he had allowed himself to sink into. "I would do all of them, no matter how horrific. You are not ready for this inevitability, Gregory."

He could feel himself dying, piece by piece, as the realization shattered him, his icy heart left at Gregory Lestrade's feet in melted shards.

"What I am will destroy you."

"Mycroft..."

"I need to go."

No. A Holmes is *not* a coward, and no, he was not making his escape up the stairs and to the main floor, and he did *not* just demand a car be brought round to him immediately and he did *not* just call Anthea and request she break into Lestrade's flat and take every shred of evidence he'd been cohabiting there out of it. He was not running away from this. He was preserving the life of someone he cared very, very deeply for. And those were not, they were *not* tears welling in his eyes and he was *not* weeping as he got into the back seat of the waiting Audi at the sidewalk and demanded in an angry, vicious tone that he be driven, immediately, to The Diogenes Club.

He forced himself into ice. He put a damnable glacier around his being and concentrated on what was of supreme importance. Turkey's problems would be solved in a matter of hours.

Mycroft Holmes had to keep his priorities strictly in place.

~*~

The crisis, of course, had been solved, and Mycroft had been commended for his exemplary performance in nullifying the effects of the insurgents and ensuring, once again, that order and peace prevailed. It had been a matter of extreme compartmentalization, to the point his hollow chest was crackling with new frosty formations, the entire whirlwind of emotions he had recklessly indulged in now banished forever. He did not visit memories, nor did he mention within his mind the very whisper of Gregory Lestrade's name, and with his umbrella tucked beside him, his suit freshly pressed and free of all colognes and lingering shared lint, Mycroft Holmes sat in his usual throne at The Diogenes Club and contemplated the latest developments in the North Korean elections.

The dusty old crones who surrounded him did not give his renewed presence at the club a second thought, and if there was a question as to his absence for the past several months it was muted beneath rustles of newsprint. When his cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he took it out, the text earned nothing more from him than a cold, calculated look and a slightly raised brow.

_What the hell have you done? Are you stupid? -- SH_

This cryptic text from his damnable younger brother was quickly followed by another, one that was only slightly less obtuse:

_You've really done it this time. No hope for you now. Rest in peace, dear brother. -- SH_

Mycroft frowned at this. What the devil was Sherlock on about now? He tucked his cell phone back into his pocket and tried to concentrate on more solid pieces of information, the world's grottos something he should perhaps investigate more fully. That whole issue with the Columbians had exposed a serious hole in his understanding of certain criminal influences running a near parallel and far grimmer society beneath the veneer of the one he served to protect. Massive amounts of money were being made, and as the world ran on the stuff it was a serious leverage for the criminal element, one that could afford an unfortunate, legitimate tipping power that Mycroft would need to watch carefully.

He was thinking this when the front door to The Diogenes Club was slammed open and shut, and shouts rang out from the front foyer. The outburst was quickly abolished, and though all the quiet room's occupants were rattled by the unintelligible sound that had near battered the door to their sanctuary, Mycroft and his compatriots resettled into their chairs, the ensuing silence assuring them all that the cretin who had disturbed their contemplation had been tossed out.

The doors leading into the quiet room swung violently open, revealing a very rumpled looking Inspector Gregory Lestrade in its frame. He was red faced and shaking, his knuckles bruised as though he'd been punching a brick wall and, as Mycroft's eyes widened at his approach, it was clear Lestrade had every intention of creating a scene.

He watched, holding his breath as Gregory paced the floor in front of the door, his hands on his hips as he swivelled his head behind him, keeping a close eye on the two guards waiting for him to so much as utter a benign 'Hello' and thus earn a fast toss over the front steps for his insolence. Lestrade pursed his lips and raised his chin as he let out puffs of air, his pacing calming into smaller steps that eventually led to where Mycroft was sitting.

Mycroft lifted his brows as he looked up at Gregory in confused question, for he hadn't expected the man to confront him like this, not when he couldn't speak or rail in fury at Mycroft's seeming betrayal. For once, this silence was exceptionally cruel, for Mycroft could not at all plead his case that his work would take them down every manner of discomforting avenues, that he had many enemies who would seek out a hot under the collar detective and have no qualms at all against snuffing him and his extended family out.

Not that Gregory's sister Sharon would allow that to happen, however, his inner parchment, suddenly alive and with a new ball point pen, reminded him. Sharon with her master plans and Betty with her cruel implementation, and of course, Jeanette, the means by which all could acquire poison. No, perhaps Gregory was *not* quite so vulnerable to Mycroft's folly with that sort of witch's army behind him.

Sharon would not at all be averse to sending his own, and thus her brother's, enemies dead sparrows in the mail.

He had not entirely thought this severance through.

Lestrade stood in front of his chair, bottom lip bitten, hands still on hips and spreading his grey coat wide as he looked down on Mycroft, who was feeling small and nervous at the scrutiny. Curious looks from bushy brows and the rustling of folding newsprint all around him put him in a very uncomfortable spotlight. Really, Gregory, this is wholly unnecessary! Hardly a place for an argument, not one either of them could win. Perhaps it was all meant to come to blows, and Mycroft braced himself, for Gregory was not an inexpressive man, and this silent, boiling stalemate currently lurking between them was set to become explosive.

So it was with some surprise that Mycroft watched Gregory's stern expression soften into one of frightened longing, his bullpen gasps now shaky sighs that matched his large, brown eyes in equal, scared tension. The question was so obvious, and Mycroft felt that ice he'd built so fervently earlier in the day begin its not so gentle shift within him, cracks returning the question that not even he could answer.

Why?

Why did it have to be like this?

He inclined his head and turned away, hands clasped tight. He had hoped this would be a rebuttal enough, but Gregory, as was his habit, shocked him by stepping closer and...In a quaking moment of vulnerable boldness, the man actually dropped to his knees, and stared up at Mycroft with naked imploring.

His inner parchment scribbled away, creating a simple list for him to peruse at his emotional leisure, though he certainly felt as though he was about to shatter into a billion pieces, an exploded star that left nothing in its vicinity behind.

_1) DCI Gregory Lestrade is on his knees in front of your chair in The Diogenes Club and he is staring up at you with the most loving, gorgeous, merciless in his naked love for you expression and here you are, immobilized. You are, in actuality, quite terrified._

_2) DCI Gregory Lestrade, of Scotland Yard and assistant in dealing with your brother's more self destructive whims, is on his knees and he has something small and square in his hand and he's holding it out to you like he'd just found bloody Excalibur (again!) and, oh my, he's opening it now, and is that a bomb? It most certainly is. It's a sparkling, ruby, eye catching bomb and it is for you, Mycroft, he is giving this red glittering thing to *you*._

_3) You do need to breathe. Remember that thing your body uses, a rather useful set of organs, what are those called? Ah, yes. Lungs. Air in and then out. Not quite so quickly as you're doing now, all this heaving and gasping which is earning the attention of all these old crusty remnants poured like human pudding into comfortable leather chairs. Oh dear, should your stomach be flying out of your abdomen like that and lodging itself in your throat? Good gracious, that is one ugly, snot faced and grimacing example of hysterical crying, and your head is doing the most strange thing, it's bobbing up and down, like those little toys you find on the dashboards of cabs._

_4) Fine. Looks like you won't be needing me anymore. Congratulations, you sentimental fuckwit. The card's in the mail._

His inner parchment rolled up and burned and took the ball point pen with it, and a good thing, too, because Mycroft was now sobbing into DCI Lestrade's chest, heedless of the spectacle his unfettered emotions foisted onto the dull, rather jealous, crones in the quiet room. Held tightly, he trembled and shook, and if anyone was going to complain of Gregory's tender shushing, they thought better of it, and let the couple be. Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, was a force of reckoning when his heart was lodged hard in frost. No one wanted to think what kind of power that strong muscle could wield when set into furious flames.


End file.
